Handle with Care
by Gamebird
Summary: At the end of S2, Peter and Nathan decide to take over the Company instead of the press conference. Sylar was captured and never got his powers back. Now Peter discovers that a powerless Sylar has been beaten and abandoned, locked away for days.
1. Misplaced Cargo

**Title: **Handle with Care**  
>Characters: <strong>Peter Petrelli/Sylar  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17 (only chapters 6, 9 and 10 are NC-17. The rest are PG-13/T)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Mild violence, explicit sexual content, descriptions of the after-effects of torture and a very brutal beating  
><strong>Setting: <strong>This begins three days after Powerless at the end of season two, in an AU where Peter and Nathan decided to deal with the Company's moral lapses themselves instead of having a press conference. In second twist of AU, Elle's lightning bolt hit Sylar as he was trying to escape from Mohinder's lab with the serum. He was never able to inject himself and was captured.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peter is trying to figure out how to fix the many lives the Company has ruined when he discovers that a powerless Sylar was dropped off at the facility days earlier and has been unaccounted for all this time.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Thanks to DancingDragon3 for inspiring me. This was my second attempt to write to DD3's prompt, "Petlar, pre-Wall, first time sex with each other, Peter tops, force and seduction, minimal dialogue, PWP, something fun." I got started on it, saw that it was going to be a long story, and tabled it for a few weeks, struggled with writer's block, reworked it, and here it is. For those who pay attention to my characterization of Peter, note that this is 'full power empathy Peter', whose ability to perceive and understand the motivations of others is significantly stronger than any of my season 4 portrayals of Peter.

* * *

><p>Peter scowled at the paperwork, trying to make sense of it. He pointed at an entry from a couple days before, the morning after he and Adam had come here, to the Odessa, Texas facility to find the virus. He'd destroyed Strain 138 of the virus, Hiro had taken out Adam, and Nathan had come up with a plan to take over the Company to prevent that sort of disaster from ever happening again. Peter was fine with that. Nathan was off chasing financials in some sort of 'follow the money' obsession. Peter's job was managing people.<p>

He tapped the line on the log, turning the clipboard so the facilities manager could see it. "What's this here? 'Elle Bishop and cargo'?" He'd already learned that 'cargo' was the usual euphemism for a prisoner, since no one wanted documentation that they'd been illegally abducting and incarcerating people.

"Ah," the man said, reading it. "Yes, Ms. Bishop was returning an escaped inmate."

"You had an escapee?" Peter said, brows rising.

The manager backpedaled. Peter might be young and largely ignorant of how businesses operated, but he had two things going for him that had these people scared, if not respectful: his last name, and a multitude of abilities. He had yet to work out which was more frightening to the staff. The facilities manager told him, "There was an escapee some time ago, but not from this facility. We had nothing to do with it."

Peter looked at him blankly, trying to catch snippets of thought. Without being obvious, he couldn't focus the mind-reading well enough yet to get a constant insight, but he was getting better at it every day. Adam had helped him with the fine points of several of his abilities, but telepathy hadn't been one the ancient had encouraged, for reasons that were obvious in retrospect. Peter's ego was still bruised from the lies he'd fallen for.

"Sylar," Peter breathed, but what he was seeing in the man's mind was far from the tall, arrogant killer Peter knew from Kirby Plaza. It was a man broken, cut open with tubes leading out of him. He was being resuscitated for the fourth time after what amounted to exploratory brain surgery had caused his body's autonomic processes to shut down.

The facilities manager, an older, balding man, nodded. "Yes, Gabriel Gray, but I believe his alias is Sylar."

Peter blinked at him, parsing the memories of Sylar's moans of agony even while sedated - in fact, _only_ while sedated. While awake, he was silent and dangerous, more of a security threat than anyone else they had on level five. "You _tortured_ him."

The man stared back at Peter, an expression of slight befuddlement on his face. He glanced off to the side, then back. "I don't think you understand what we do here, Mr. _Petrelli_," he said, with the peculiar emphasis on his last name that the Company people tended to use, as if Peter should know all about the company by simple mechanism of who he was related to. "Torture is a morally laden word. What was carried out on Mr. Gray was more akin to _testing_."

Peter pulled back in revulsion at the callousness he was detecting. The man was so detached from the humanity of his subjects that he didn't even register the pain, suffering and trauma they were inflicting on these people. Peter looked down at the log, lips moving slowly even though he was rendered speechless. The Company staggered him. He really didn't know what to do with it. He kept running across things like this. They made him think that Nathan's initial idea of having a press conference and blowing it wide open might have been the better plan. What worried Peter was the question of where Peter himself (and the rest of his family) would be categorized, if all the facts were known. It seemed likely that the public would feel just as this man did about their 'subjects.' It wasn't like the world had all that good a track record regarding human rights abuses.

_Then__ I__'__ll __start __fixing __things __here, __because __here __is __where __I __am_. "This," Peter started, giving himself a little shake, "this man, Sylar. The reason I was asking about this log entry was because no one was admitted to the cells, but Elle showed up with him. Did she take him with her when she left?"

"No, no, I don't think so." The man looked at Peter blankly, without the slightest interest in what had happened to a human being in his facility. He'd held his position, comfortably, for over two decades. 'Jaded' would be an understatement.

"Don't you _care?_" Peter asked, hoping there was some spark of humanity underneath all that scarring. There _had_ to be.

"Well … I spoke with Ms. Bishop very briefly. Mr. Gray didn't have any abilities. We injected him with the Shanti virus some time ago. He probably won't live out the month. He's not a security risk any more."

_He__ won__'__t __live __out __the __month, __because __of __something __you __did __to __him?_ Peter made a frustrated, exasperated exhalation. "Don't you care what _happened_ to him? _Where__ is__ he?_" Peter pointed at the log again. "There was no admittance record into a cell. I've _been_ to the prison cells on levels four and five," _disturbing __as __that __was, __and __inadvertently __picked __up __a __half __dozen __new __abilities __that __I __didn__'__t __really __want_, "and he wasn't _in_ them. I'd have recognized him. So if she brought him here, and she didn't leave with him, then where is he?"

"Oh!" The man brightened, finally getting it. "Oh, I don't know. Since he was infected and not dangerous enough to be kept in a cell, he was probably dropped off in research. That was the standard procedure, for assessment, you see."

Peter stared at the man, dread filling him. "I ordered the research wing shut down." It had been one of the first things he did, actually, and the first organizational thing that stuck. Anything that smacked of human experimentation Peter had full-stop ended as soon as he got in control.

"Well … yes, but Ms. Bishop probably didn't know that. She wasn't here long enough to hear about the shutdown, so she might have thought someone would be along to treat him very shortly. In fact, she left as soon as she found you and your brother were in charge."

A cold sensation ran through Peter. "That was almost _three __days __ago_. Are you telling me he might still be …"

* * *

><p>Peter paced rapidly down the corridors, stopping every fifty feet to listen. Ironically, he was pretty sure the enhanced hearing was a gift from Sylar as well. He found himself hoping, actually, that the man had slipped whatever restraints Elle had probably used on him and escaped while no one was looking. Peter doubted it, but it was possible, despite the assurances of adequate security from the facilities manager. It was also possible that he'd <em>died<em> - died on Peter's watch.

The idea that Peter's first major action in trying to curb the Company's atrocities might have caused someone a gruesome death by privation was haunting every step he took, even if that someone was Sylar. He took some solace in knowing that for a healthy young man at room temperature and low exertion, death was unlikely, but Peter had no idea what stresses the Shanti virus put on a body. _Just __how __many __viruses __does __the __Company __have __out __there?__ At __least __138._

The walls between the various floors of the facility were so thick and reinforced that even with enhanced hearing the sounds were muffled. Perhaps if Sylar had called for help, Peter might have heard him, but to pick out that one sound among so many was improbable. Given what he'd seen in the manager's mind, Sylar was not the sort to cry out for assistance. In any event, most of the time Peter actively tried _not_ to hear too much. At the moment he was listening for a heartbeat, or any other sign of life.

He was halfway down the corridor when he heard the syncopated beat of a heart - it was at the other end, and human this time, as opposed to the rats he'd homed in on earlier. He strode down the hall hurriedly to the last door, which would have been the first for Elle, who had likely come in through the service elevator. Peter had taken the stairs at the opposite end of the wing. He hesitated with his hand on the door. _Sylar. _He recalled the locker doors flying towards him at Claire's high school, the terror of the fall from the stadium, being fixed in place against Mohinder's wall as his skull was cut open, the dim awareness of the flying glass that killed him, being hit with a parking meter, being choked, Sylar's heckling laugh: _'__Turns__ out __you__'__re __the __villain, __Peter. __I__'__m __the __hero.__'_

He'd felt fear, confusion and anger then. He let the feelings wash through him now and fade away. On the other side of the door was a human being - not a hero, not a villain. Peter opened the door.


	2. Damaged in Transit

"Peter Petrelli," Sylar sneered when he saw Peter. His voice was thick and tired, but it still managed to drip with contempt. Looking him over, Peter really couldn't blame the man for his disgust and hatred of the world. Sylar was firmly strapped to a gurney, by wrists and ankles, and he'd obviously been there for days, just as Peter had feared. He'd been worked over first, and really badly. His face bore burn marks and bruises, still stained with long-since dried blood. One of his eyes had the white darkened with blood and both were sunken from dehydration. The fingers of one hand were misshapen and he'd obviously been unable to move from where he lay, with all that meant for normal biological processes. He looked horrible. The place smelled like someone had died in it.

Peter moved to his side immediately, the memories of violence and assault from this man disappearing in the face of the reality of pain and suffering before him. Sylar pulled back from him slightly, a weary wariness marking his features along with a clear expectation of being hit. "I'm here to help you," Peter said quietly. Sylar made a snort of disbelief and remained as defensive as he could be given his restraints. Peter released the straps, peeling them back carefully. The skin under them had been chafed and abraded off. The heavy canvas straps were stuck to his flesh and separated with a sound like pulling off a piece of tape. Sylar's hiss of pain was faint, but his expression changed from hate to mere resentment as Peter freed him. He tried to sit up as soon as he was released.

Peter had sort of expected that and moved to catch him as Sylar's eyes rolled up in his head in an also expected faint. _I__ probably __should__ have __said __something __to __him __- __not __that __he__'__d __have __listened._ Sylar collapsed on him and Peter struggled to hold him, trying to get the dead weight back on the gurney. Fortunately it was fixed in place, probably to prevent energetic patients from overturning it.

Consciousness returned to Sylar seconds later as his blood pressure stabilized. Peter could hear the man's heart rate skyrocket. The killer clung to Peter, silently fighting Peter's attempt to get him back on the bed. Peter caught Sylar's emotions and even the thoughts behind them, overcome as he was by the excitement and proximity. Sylar felt loathing at having been made to lie helpless and abandoned in his own filth for days, fear that Peter was going to put him back on that damn bed, desperation at the shred of hope Peter was dangling before him that someone might help him, and fury at himself for wanting to believe it.

Realizing what the gurney meant to Sylar, Peter stopped trying to get him on it and said, "On the floor, okay?"

"No!" Sylar growled, digging the fingers of his undamaged hand into Peter's shoulders and gripping him more firmly. Sylar tucked his head against Peter's for leverage, struggling to hang on and stay upright. He gasped roughly and clung as hard as he could. The only way he was going down was if he took Peter with him. He was remarkably cogent for someone in his condition.

_Stop__ fighting __with __him, __Peter,_ he told himself. _You__'__re__ going__ to__ hurt __him, __just__ because__ it__'__s__ convenient__ to__ you__ to__ have__ him __on__ the__ floor. __Let__ the __man__ stand __on __his __own __two __feet __if __he __wants. _Peter took in a deep breath, ignoring that the room (and Sylar) stank, and stood very still, bracing himself. The taller man hung on him, swaying slightly and breathing heavily. Peter could feel Sylar's heart hammering against his chest, trying to compensate for the low blood volume. After a moment, Peter adjusted his hands around the small of Sylar's back for better support. He could feel Sylar fighting off waves of dizziness and straining to keep his balance.

The man's breathing slowed. Peter could sense Sylar's emotions settling down. He was oddly comfortable holding Peter, enough so that Peter extended his telepathy to try to read what was going on there. Sylar was thinking, _It__'__s __a __nicer __treatment __than __I__ got __from __Maya_, which thought brought back memories of having his fingers broken and being kicked in the face after Elle had electrocuted him. Peter winced as Sylar's thoughts went on, _I __killed __Peter __a __couple __times __and __here __he __is __nearly __hugging __me. __Might __as __well __enjoy __the __moment__ while __I__ have __the__ chance._

Peter smiled a little, amused by the idea that even in his current state, Sylar had a sex drive. He really was astonishingly enduring. Peter looked over to the side and spotted a pair of round, backless stools on casters. Peter jerked one over with telekinesis, provoking a wave of jealousy and envy from Sylar. Peter gave him a short squeeze in sympathy. "If you'll sit down, I'll go get you some water and then we'll get you cleaned up." He would have preferred a hydrating solution, but he knew where the water was and he was too suspicious of anything else in this wing to use it, no matter how clearly labeled it was.

Sylar nodded silently, dropping his hand to a nearby cart that had a tray of implements on it. He acted like he needed it for balance. Only because Peter was still getting a lot of the man's thoughts did he notice Sylar palm a scalpel before transferring to the stool. Peter gave Sylar a long, level look. Sylar returned it, cool as ice, assuming that Peter was waiting to see if he could sit without falling over. Peter turned his back on him, chewing his lip once his face was unseen and waiting to see what happened. Given what he'd already seen in the killer's head, and in the thoughts of the facility manager earlier, Peter understood his desire for a weapon. That didn't mean Peter was keen on having it used on him, though.

Sylar's thoughts predictably went to the possibility of stabbing Peter in the back of the head. He remembered where the glass had gotten Peter and assumed that was the right spot. Or maybe it was any brain damage. He thought about the friendly-seeming squeeze Peter had given him seconds before, as well as Peter telling him he'd help and was now going to fetch him water. Sylar turned the scalpel and slid it up his sleeve, thinking he didn't need it at the moment.

Peter exhaled and headed off, closing the mental awareness. It was disorienting to keep telepathy up while trying to do normal activities. He found a sink in the next room and returned with a dampened towel and a beaker of water. Sylar eyed the beaker. Peter said, "I washed it several times. It's just water. Do you want me to drink some first?" Sylar shook his head, took it carefully and tried to drain it in one go, nearly falling off the stool in the process. He also got into a fight with Peter over the beaker as Peter pulled it away, telling him, "No! Not all at once. You'll throw up."

Sylar desisted with a snarl, keeping his hands firmly gripped around the container. For a tense moment they both held it. Peter spoke more softly, "Small amounts, okay? I'm trying to help you." Sylar looked apprehensively between the water and Peter's face. Finally he nodded, relaxing a little, and Peter let go of the beaker. Sylar took another drink, bigger than Peter would have liked, and glaring formidably over the rim at him, but it was still a concession.

Peter took up the towel and started with Sylar's face as the other man held the half-empty beaker. He wiped his brow, avoiding the knots and scorch marks for now. More than half the man's face was bruised and battered. It also looked like he'd been badly electrocuted as well. For now, Peter cleaned what wouldn't hurt, trying to gain trust.

It was working. "Why are you doing this?" Sylar asked.

"You're a human being. There's a lot of wrong been done here. I'm going to stop it. I'm going to make right what I can." Peter cleaned carefully on Sylar's better cheek. He could see Sylar beginning to ease a little more and slump in his seat.

Sylar smirked and gave a very tiny shake of his head, eyes intent on Peter. "You can't make this right."

Peter hesitated, towel poised over Sylar's semi-bearded jaw line as he thought about that. He couldn't change the past. Sylar was probably talking of the people he'd killed, who were dead no matter what. Peter let his eyes fall and shoulders sag. "You're right. There's nothing I can … I can stop it from _continuing_ at least." He started cleaning again.

Sylar raised one brow slightly and tilted his head. Peter gave him a small smile and took the motion as if Sylar were proffering that cheek. "Thanks," Peter said. "Here, tilt that a little more." He got a dry chuckle from his patient, who moved his head cooperatively.

"I could do this myself," Sylar offered, his eyes dancing over Peter's face, so close to his own. Peter could feel that the proximity and care was stirring a lot of emotions within the other man - fear, hope, interest and attraction. Peter was flattered. It made him want to tend to him more.

"One of your hands is broken, you're trying to keep a scalpel up your sleeve with the other, and you don't have a mirror to see what you're doing. I'm fine with it." Peter didn't miss how Sylar tensed and drew in on himself, straightening more than an inch at the mention of his concealed weapon. Fear overwhelmed everything else in the killer. Sylar made a motion with his hand. Peter glanced down to see the scalpel in his grip now. Peter went on like that wasn't a factor, facing down the anxiety with a steady unconcern. "Sylar, I saw some of what they did to you and you were left in here like an old coat. Christ, they made arrangements for the _lab__ rats!_ They didn't do anything for you. You can have a scalpel. I don't intend to act like someone you need to defend yourself from."

Sylar fidgeted with the medical blade, but he was keeping his hand on his thigh. He had the beaker cupped between his injured hand and his waist. He stared at Peter, allowing the empath to turn his face to carefully clean the blood from his ear. "What do you mean?" Sylar said, his voice softened by the intimate contact. His emotions, too, were following his tone of voice. Relief was foremost.

"I mean Nathan and I have control of this facility in name only right now. Elle left to go get one of the other founders, or directors, or whatever they're called." Peter shook his head. "I don't know what's going to happen, but I don't blame you. The stakes are way higher than I thought." He looked Sylar up and down. "And what you did … I'm starting to wonder how much of that was your idea." The memory of repeated brain surgery came to Peter's mind, coupled with the fact that Sylar seemed to have some fixation with repeating a similar act. It looked pretty damned connected, from Peter's point of view. He didn't have the benefit of knowing Sylar's timeline.

Sylar's brows rose and his eyes widened, but he said not a word. Peter could sense fear and hope and that same inward-directed fury that Sylar had had before when he'd hated himself for lusting too much after the idea that someone would help him. Peter decided it might be better to change the subject for the moment, and said with a little humor, "You're a mess." He straightened. "There's a sink in the next room. I'd like to walk you to it and have you clean yourself. I'll go get you some fresh clothes."

Peter felt the shift to duplicity and an attempt to manipulate him, but before he could ponder it, Sylar had flipped the scalpel and was offering it handle first. "You're right. I won't be needing this," he said with a false smile. It was a very good false smile, as such things went.

Peter snorted and ignored it, moving to take Sylar's left elbow and upper arm. "Keep it. I'm not the only person in here."

Sylar let himself be helped up off the stool, putting aside the mostly empty beaker and peering down at Peter somewhat incredulously. "You don't mind if I kill someone with it?"

Peter paused, looking down at the floor. "Sylar. I almost blew up half of New York City because the Company founders thought it was a good idea for someone's political career. I almost killed nearly everyone on the _planet_ because the guy who taught the Company founders their tricks manipulated me. I caught a few images of what they did to you while you were here and I can see what they've done to you lately." Peter gestured loosely at Sylar's current state. "If someone with the Company fucks with you … you have a right to self defense."


	3. Inaccurate Labeling

Peter started leading Sylar along across the hall, mindful in case the recuperating man had another fainting spell. Sylar asked, "_You__'__re_ with the Company, right?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Not … well, sort of. My brother and I are here. We're kind of in control now. I doubt that will last long."

"Hm," Sylar said, working things out in his head. He glanced up and down the hall as they crossed it, pausing at the door to the next room with one hand on the frame. "This is the research wing."

"Yeah?" Peter noticed Sylar recognized it, which given the nature of some of the experiments they had conducted here was a really, really bad sign.

"Do you know where Mohinder Suresh is?" Sylar turned his penetrating eyes on Peter.

"No." He wondered why Sylar wanted to know. Far as he knew, Mohinder wasn't affiliated with the Company, although … now that Peter thought about it, the book Chandra had written had included an awful lot of case studies of abilities, things that could have been culled from the findings of this very research facility. _They__'__re__ probably __connected. __Mohinder __might __not __have __known __any__more __of __his __father__'__s __work__ than __Nathan __and __I__ do __of __our __parents__ … __or __maybe __he __did __and __he __was __just __lying __to __me._ Sylar kept looking at him like he was trying to figure something out, so Peter added, "Last time I saw him was months ago, in New York. Around the same time I last saw you. Why?"

Very slowly, as though he were dragging the words out, Sylar said, "If you are serious about helping me, and not furthering," he let his eyes roam over the research wing, "_this_, then help me find him. I'm infected with a lethal virus that he has the cure to."

Peter stiffened. "There's a cure?" _They__ didn__'__t__ mention__** that! **__Why__ haven__'__t__ they__ used__ it?__ Bastards._

Sylar nodded, still watching Peter intently, trying to judge him. Hope and suspicion warred within him.

Peter nodded back very slowly, letting his eyes drop to the middle of Sylar's chest as he thought about the facilities manager saying Sylar would be dead within the month. "Is it contagious?"

Sylar snorted and began his slow, careful walk from the hall into the next room. "You've already touched my blood. You tell me."

Peter looked down at his hands, rubbing his fingertips together. _Should__ have __used __gloves. __Didn__'__t __think __about __it.__ It__'__s __not __like __they __didn__'__t __try __to __hammer__ that __into __me__ in __nursing __school._ "What are the symptoms?"

Sylar made his way to the sink, resentful and amused at the same time. "If you have it, you'll notice soon enough."

"I need to know," Peter insisted, thinking he could at least arrange to treat Sylar's condition symptomatically while he tried to find Mohinder. Peter knew where the geneticist's old apartment was, but he didn't know if he was still living there.

Sylar only raised one shoulder in a half-shrug and turned on the water in the sink. "Tell me if you notice anything strange about yourself and I'll let you know." He glanced back at Peter, looking him up and down, checking him out under a show of indifference. "Stranger than usual, that is," he said in a friendly tone and with a small, but warm smile.

Peter blinked and smiled a little in return at the joke. He could tell the humor was an indirect expression of gratitude and appreciation. He rolled his eyes with humor after Sylar turned away, then pursed his lips as his thoughts returned to the other man's issues. "What about _your_ symptoms?" Peter had heard the facilities manager say Sylar had no abilities, and that he'd been injected with the virus, but Peter saw no correlation or causation between the two. The world had become so illogical since discovering abilities that Peter tried not to make assumptions anymore.

Sylar looked back at him again, raising one brow marginally even though that had to hurt with the burn on his forehead. "You really don't know, do you?"

Peter shook his head and huffed, resisting the impulse to read the man's mind to find out. He didn't want to damage the fragile trust with that. "If you'll clean up, I'll go get you some clothes. What size of jeans do you wear?"

"Just make sure they have a drawstring," Sylar said quietly, with an edge in his voice. He cupped his hands under the water flowing from the faucet and raised them to his face. What emotional openness he'd been showing ended as a deep-seated rage slowly welled to the surface.

"A drawstring?"

"Yeesss," Sylar said, drawing the word out. "They don't stay on well without a drawstring." He glanced over. "I've been a guest here before and it's hardly the Ritz," he sneered.

Peter laughed a little, realizing the cause of the anger. He remembered the standard issue clothing the inmates on the lower levels had worn. But Peter had no intention of swelling the ranks of the Company's miniature prison. As far as Peter knew, Sylar hadn't killed people just to kill them. He'd done it for abilities, which had been stripped from him. That meant he should be safe, right? "No, I was going to go to a _store_. Like, a real store, to buy things. Tell me your size."

Sylar cocked his head briefly in puzzlement, licking the water from his lips, then told him. Peter nodded and teleported out. It didn't take him long to make his purchases and return. Something about Hiro's power meant that most people neglected to notice his sudden appearance and disappearance. It was a useful side effect, even if the obliviousness didn't affect people who had abilities. Nor, apparently, people who had had abilities previously, as Peter discovered when he returned.

Sylar jumped so badly he had to grab the counter for balance. He was naked, having been finishing up cleaning himself at the sink with a wet towel. At Peter's intrusion, he drew himself up to his full height, taking on a threatening posture. Peter found a bit of floor off to the side fascinating to look at, giving it his undivided attention, despite the urge to survey. Sylar did have a really nice body, even if it was littered with bruises at the moment. Peter regretted not having gotten a better look in the second or two he'd had. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sylar relax a little and put the towel in front of himself. Peter extended the shopping bag to the side, his eyes not straying from the floor. A moment later, Sylar stepped over and took it.

Peter turned his back to avoid further temptation, saying, "I didn't know what you wanted for shaving, so I just got disposables."

"You got me …" Peter heard the clatter as Sylar emptied the bag on the counter to examine the goods. "And a toothbrush?" He barked a laugh of pure delight.

"Yes," Peter said quietly, immensely warmed to have pleased someone so much, even if he knew he should be appalled that Sylar's expectations were so low that a toothbrush was a rare luxury. He heard the other man dress in the new underwear, jeans, socks and pullover he'd bought, then begin on his teeth. By then Peter was leaned against the wall and watching openly, picking through his few memories of dealing with this man.

Death, blood and fear - not incongruent with the man standing before him, but what did that really mean? _Should__ I __trust__ him? __Or __not, __and __lead __him __downstairs __and __lock __him __in __a __cell, __sans __judge __or __jury?__ Or __cure __him, __so __he __could __go __back __to __a __normal__ life? __What__'__s __a __normal __life __for __someone __like __him, __or __me, __or __any __of __us __with __abilities? __What __did __he __do __before __he __got __his __power? __Was __he __turned __into __a __killer __by __all __that __conditioning __and __brain __manipulation, __through __those __experiments __and__ '__testing__' __I__ saw __in __that __guy__'__s __mind? __Was __Sylar__'__s __mutilation __of __his __victims __some__ sort __of __weird,__ traumatized __re-enactment __of __what __was __done __to __him?_ Peter gazed at the other man blankly, thoughts milling around.

Sylar spat and rinsed, glancing back. "You look like you're watching my ass," he said quite blandly.

Peter jerked. Yes, he had been. So he watched instead as Sylar applied shaving cream. _Yeah,__I__ suppose __that__'__s __where __my__ eyes __were._ He couldn't think of how to politely apologize for that, and Sylar wasn't acting offended, so Peter decided to pretend it hadn't happened. Instead he asked, "Why did you kill all those people?"

Sylar paused, plastic razor halfway to his face. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm trying to understand." Sylar went on with shaving, not answering, so Peter continued, "I have … a feel for people. You were going after strangers, getting their abilities from them. Somehow though, it doesn't seem like … you."

Sylar turned to give him a baleful glare, his upper lip curling slightly. "You don't know me," he growled.

Peter shrugged once more, unaffected by the defensive display. "Exactly. And so I'll ask again, why did you kill all those people? Help me understand."

Sylar snorted, going back to shaving. "There's nothing to understand. They're dead. I killed them." He sounded sullen and unhappy about things. Again, Peter had the sense that how things had turned out was not how Sylar wanted them to be.

"It doesn't feel right …" Peter mused, touching at the conflicting impressions he was getting with his empathy. It functioned constantly, giving him an emotional read of people much more perceptive than standard body language and facial cues. He had better control of it than he had of telepathy, but knowing a thing didn't always mean you understood it. Sylar was a really mixed bag of opposed emotions. He watched as Sylar completed one shave of his face and re-lathered to do it again in case he'd missed spots. _Maybe__ it __would__ help__ if __I__ just__ asked?_ "If you could start over, now," Peter inquired, "would you still be the sort of killer you were before?"

"I don't have any powers, Peter. How could I be?"

Shaving cream or not, Peter didn't miss the momentary quirk of Sylar's lips or the way he exhaled just a little too forcefully. "You're lying." _Probably __not __about __the __powers, __though._

The other man looked back at him, eyes cold. He stared at Peter for a very long time, during which Peter met his eyes determinedly, not about to be backed down. Something about Sylar's last statement was false and Peter could sense that. He wasn't going to accept Sylar's deceit.

Finally Sylar said, and this time he was completely honest, "If I could start over, like some time travel reset button, _it__ wouldn__'__t __help_. Not unless I found someone who would recognize how special my ability made me, without me having to _prove__ it_ over and over!" The barely suppressed wrath in Sylar's voice carried and Peter found himself considering how betrayed he'd felt at his brother for denying what they could do. He'd felt so invalidated, so dismissed and disrespected by that. It had driven him to the suicidal gesture of leaping off a thirty-story building just to prove that he was special.

It wasn't just his brother, either. His mother had conspired to have him blow up New York and both his parents had been neck-deep in the Company's human experimentation, illegal abductions and incarceration, and torture of the worst kind. They knew all about abilities and being special, and yet when he'd developed his power, he'd become just another tool to be manipulated.

That was _his_ family. What of Sylar? "Do you have any family?"

"That's none of your business," Sylar said sullenly. He turned back to the sink for another drink of water.

Peter offered, "Mine sucks. My brother's the only one with any redeeming features, and even he has his moments."

Sylar glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He blinked several times and looked away, caving under the social pressure to share something of himself in return. "I don't have any siblings."

"Yeah?" Peter said amiably, perfectly aware of the manipulation he was enacting. "What about parents? My dad died two years ago, but just last year I found out depression and delusions run in the family. My mom tops that, though. She set it up so I would murder a few million people." Bitterly, he added, "Apparently she thought I'd be cool with that, which is kind of stupid. If I'm okay with killing a few million people, then adding one more really shouldn't matter much, should it?"

Sylar snorted, finding common ground with Peter and turning towards him. "I had my mother. I showed her what I could do, a couple of the powers I'd gained. She …" Sylar paused for a long moment and when he resumed, his voice was quiet and reluctant to speak. "She died."

"What happened?" Peter asked gently.

"I …" Sylar's brows drew together as he remembered. A wave of grief, pain and regret rolled off of him.

Peter made sense of the emotions a moment later. "You killed her," he said, dumbfounded. Sure, Peter had mentioned adding his mother to the theoretical body count, but despite his anger about what she'd done, he hadn't been serious.

"It was an accident!" Sylar snapped, facing off towards Peter, keeping a hand on the counter for balance. "You don't need to know anything about me! Why do you care?" He paused for a half second, before going on, "How did you know that, anyway?"

Peter straightened, refusing to back down in front of Sylar's overly defensive display. "I care because it happened to you! I intend to save your life, Sylar. I'll sleep a lot better if doing that isn't going to condemn others to death. Whatever the Company made you, you don't have to be that any more." He avoided mentioning his empathy. It wasn't often that he even thought of it as an ability. It was just a sense, no different from seeing, though it occurred to him now that his use of it was sort of unfair.

Sylar glared at him for a long moment, before his eyes dropped to the floor and he considered Peter's words. His face crumpled a little, looking lost as he turned back to arrange things neatly next to the sink. The razor, the shaving cream, the scalpel, toothbrush and toothpaste were all spaced out equally from one another and placed exactly two inches in from the edge of the counter. Sylar drank again and leaned heavily against the sink. "I'd rather not kill people," he said quietly, looking off to the side at the items he's straightened. The tips of his fingers brushed the handle of the scalpel, giving it a minute adjustment. This, too, was something very honest. "Not if I don't have to."

"It's not like you don't have a choice." _Right?_ There was something in Sylar's tone that made Peter wonder if there was.

Sylar laughed hollowly, rallying to cover the vulnerability he'd just shown. "Yeah. What was that you said about almost blowing up New York? Did you have a choice there? Were you glowing and collapsing at Kirby Plaza because you'd made a _choice_, Peter?" he mocked. "And that disease thing you mentioned - wiping out the planet? Ha. If that's true, I've got nothing on you."

"Except that I didn't do it!" Peter said hotly, feeling anger course through him.

Sylar turned, leaning his back against the counter and crossing his arms. "Oh? Lucky you, then. Was that because of a '_choice_', too?"

Peter clutched at a justification. "With the disease, yes! I changed my mind."

Sylar remained unimpressed. "Mm-hm. And what would have happened if you hadn't changed your mind? Weren't you, just moments before that decision, set on a course that would end in disaster?"

Sylar seemed determined to prove something about himself, so Peter gamely played along. "I didn't know that."

Sylar shrugged with feigned indifference.

"People can change," Peter insisted.

"Can they?" Sylar asked, straightening and walking over slowly to loom above Peter. "Do you really think they can?" he said, his voice an odd mix of threat and wonder.

"Yes," Peter answered, looking up at him, understanding that the question, and Peter's answer, might mean an awful lot to the perhaps-former killer. "Yes, they can. I _know_ they can." Peter squared off his stance challengingly. "Do you agree?"


	4. Destination Unknown

Sylar's eyes searched Peter's face as he considered the question. Peter could sense the war between being open and closed off, defensive or relaxed. _Have __courage,_ Peter urged in his thoughts. _Be __different __than __you __were. __Overcome __what __they __did __to __you. __Get __past __it!_ Sylar blinked and looked away. "I hope so."

Peter looked down, glad that there was a chance. Sylar moved off to get another drink and Peter considered what he was getting himself into here. Sylar had not a dollar on him, no phone, no family, probably no friends and definitely no powers. He was sick, he was dehydrated, starved, mistrustful and emotionally scarred. He was battered, scorched and had broken bones. Peter couldn't just drop him off at a bus station and wave him good-bye. He wasn't about to suggest Sylar sleep here, or ask the Company to get a doctor to care for him. Peter knew his own apartment had been reclaimed while he'd been locked up in the Company's jail. He doubted Sylar even had anywhere to go _to_.

But Mohinder had a cure. It was a target, but first he had to get Sylar a little more healthy. Standing and walking were accomplishments, but he was still doing a lot of leaning against things and hanging onto the counter for balance. Peter said, "I'd like to take you somewhere to recuperate for a few days."

Sylar studied Peter for a moment. "I don't want to 'recuperate'. I want to find Mohinder. His cure will take care of all of my problems."

"I'm not going to try to track him down with you this messed up."

Puzzled, but not outraged, Sylar cocked his head and repeated a question he'd asked several times already. Peter had answered, but Sylar couldn't get his mind around it. "Why do you care? You don't _have_ to help me."

Peter pursed his lips. "I know that, but I'm going to anyway," he said stubbornly. "Let's get out of here." He walked over, extending his right hand with the intention of touching Sylar's arm. Instead, Sylar caught Peter's hand directly, in his left, like he was preventing Peter from touching him. Peter could, of course, use that contact alone to teleport, but he waited in case Sylar had an objection.

Sylar looked at his hand for a long moment, then used his thumb to rub downward, curling Peter's fingers over his own in a curiously familiar gesture, almost intimate. He swallowed and looked up at Peter, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to figure Peter out. "Thank you – for caring."

_Is __it __so __strange __for __someone __to __have __a __normal, __human __interest __in __you?_ Peter smiled slowly and gave Sylar's hand a squeeze. _I __guess __it __is._ A moment later they were in an expansive living room, with an empty fireplace on one side, flanked by French doors, and on the other side a wide bar that separated an equally lavish kitchen from the living and dining area. Doors to the left and right led off into other rooms. Peter gave Sylar's hand a shorter pressure and let go, walking off to the kitchen while Sylar rubber-necked at his new surroundings. He looked out the French doors to see that they let onto a patio and beyond that, past tussock-covered dunes, was the ocean.

"Where are we?" Sylar asked in mild wonder.

"My family's beach house," Peter replied, checking out the refrigerator. "I knew there wouldn't be anyone here. Of course, that also means we're a little short on food." He shut the fridge and opened the freezer.

Sylar walked slowly to the bar, holding onto furniture as he went. "Your family … must be well-off."

Peter shrugged. Actually, the Petrelli wealth was something of a sore spot for his conscience. "Blood money, mostly. It's not like they did anything honest to earn it." He got out a tube of orange juice concentrate, setting it on the bar while he searched for a pitcher.

"Hm," Sylar hummed, sliding into a bar chair. He eyed the container. After Peter set the pitcher next to it and opened the tube, Sylar twitched and gestured with his hand in a motion for telekinesis. Nothing happened, of course, so Sylar said, "Could I … just have that? Just like it is?"

Peter gave him a perplexed look and indicated the concentrate. "This? Not mixed up?"

"Yes." Sylar swallowed, embarrassed. Like it was something of an effort, he added, "Please?"

"Sure." Peter pushed it across the bar, along with the spoon he'd been about to use to scoop it out.

Sylar smiled, a shy, boyish expression, and dug into the frozen juice. Despite the gnawing hunger he probably had, he took a moment to look at the full spoon and savor it. "My mom … she wouldn't buy ice cream, much less sherbet. That was too much of an indulgence." He looked up at Peter and smiled a little wider. "But she would buy _this_." He put the spoon in his mouth and let his eyes shut in pleasure.

Peter looked him over as he drew up a glass of water for him. He was a good-looking guy. No, scratch that – Sylar was one of the most physically attractive people Peter had ever met. It was a shame that at the moment he looked like he'd been run over by a truck. Realizing that, Peter pulled his mind out of the clouds (or perhaps the gutter) and headed off into the house, leaving the man to his restorative and the glass of water. Peter returned with a first aid kit. He took the bar chair next to Sylar's and turned the other's rotating chair towards him, their knees touching. Sylar kept eating, watching as Peter got out antiseptic wipes and then scooted forward to the edge of his seat.

Sylar glanced down at where Peter's knee was against his inner thigh now. "You're awfully forward," he observed without judgment.

Peter snorted softly, putting on gloves and then reaching up with a wipe. He hadn't thought about where his knee would end up – he'd just needed to get in close. Though he had to admit he was being a bit cavalier, putting Sylar where he wanted him and invading his space without so much as a 'may I?' He wasn't detecting any emotions that would indicate he was unwelcome - far from it. Sylar obligingly tilted his head for Peter to start cleaning the scorch mark on his forehead. "You were the one who took my hand earlier," Peter said quietly, his tone neutral.

"Mm," Sylar answered, breaking to get another spoonful of juice concentrate as Peter switched wipes. "You were the one looking at my ass before that," he answered with mock reproach. A tiny, pleased smile twitched across Sylar's lips before he sucked the spoon clean.

"You were the one who kept hugging me a lot longer than you needed to before _that_," Peter snarked back, aware that this was getting really, really flirty. He felt warm and a little tingly in places. It made it difficult to stay focused on his work.

Sylar was quiet for long enough for Peter to switch to antibiotic ointment, but Peter didn't worry. The other man was contemplative, not upset. He hadn't had the physical response Peter had to the banter, but Sylar was more intellectual. "Did you mind?" he asked very seriously.

Peter met his eyes for a moment, realizing with a sudden thrill and twist of uncertainty that this was definitely going somewhere. "No," he said softly, pausing briefly. "No, I didn't." The embrace had been nice. Sylar had been so vulnerable and needy in that moment and Peter had been literally the only thing keeping him on his feet. Sylar had clung to him for support and at that moment, Peter had felt like a hero, a savior. He'd felt special.

Peter was still lost in remembering that when Sylar suddenly leaned in. Cool, orange-flavored lips slid over Peter's and took him by surprise. Peter's eyes flew wide and he made a tiny, undignified squeak. Sylar hesitated, pulling away a half inch and staring into Peter's eyes, obviously concerned he'd done the wrong thing. After a second, Peter kissed him back to soothe away that worry. Sylar tasted of citrus and sugar, his lips slick with the frozen concoction. His eyes met Peter's for a long moment before he shut them and melted into the simple motion of lips over one another, gentle and mild.

What Peter felt from Sylar wasn't so much arousal as it was gratitude, hope, appreciation, and an underlying desire to manipulate him, like a cloying aftertaste he couldn't quite shake. Or at least, that last was what Peter read the feelings as. There was deceit there and envy and darker things. They were never absent from anyone. Peter wasn't worried to sense them closer to the surface in the killer than in most people. The relief and satisfaction the kiss gave Sylar was far stronger, and of course Peter had his own powerful response of interest and appreciation to deal with. He liked this - he liked it _a __lot_.

Sylar pulled away finally, a widening smile gracing his face. He licked his lips. Peter did the same to his own, tasting the sweetness of the juice and feeling his face heat with a blush. He looked down and cleared his throat. "You are, um, I mean … you say _I__'__m_ forward."

"Takes one to know one," Sylar answered smoothly, returning to eating. He was very pleased with himself and how that had gone. Peter certainly didn't disagree with that.

Peter took in a deep breath, his foot jumping nervously where it was perched on the rung of the seat. That only served to move his knee up and down against Sylar's leg, garnering a short, interested sound and a glance. Peter cut it out immediately and chewed on his lip instead, busying himself with the next set of wipes. _The __guy __is __bruised __and __messed __up __all __over __the __place. __This __is __not __the __time. __Cool __it, __Peter._"Okay, listen, we should cut that out. I gotta get you cleaned up." _And, __you __know, __there__'__s __the __small __matter __of __him __being __a __multiple __murderer, __including __having __killed __**me **__twice._ Somehow that seemed a lot less pressing when he was lost in a kiss with said multiple murderer.

"Of course," Sylar said dryly. "There might be something to this 'recuperation' business after all."

Peter didn't answer and went back to tending to his patient's various hurts. The open wounds were cleaned and bandaged. Eventually he moved on to Sylar's right hand, the one with the broken fingers. "For now, I'm going to buddy tape these using the finger splint I've got in the kit. When you said Mohinder's cure would take care of all your problems, what did you mean?"

Sylar had finished consuming the entire container of concentrate and now looked a bit nauseous as a result (_really,_ Peter thought to himself, _I __should __have __stopped __him __at __about __halfway. __Just __like __with __the __water, __he __doesn__'__t __know __his __limits._) The man answered, "His cure is derived from antibodies within his own blood, augmented by that of a certain cheerleader of your previous acquaintance."

Peter's head snapped up from where he had been gently feeling along Sylar's fingers, trying to determine how best to take care of his hand. "Claire?"

"Yes. She heals." Sylar's eyes were on him piercingly.

Peter nodded. "Do you know where he stores it?"_I __could __just __teleport __in, __get __it, __and __get __out. __Problem __solved._

"I had the opportunity to read his notes. He created two doses of the cure to the Shanti virus using the blood he had available to him. He used one while I was present. He had plans for the other. I would assume that by now, he's found his target and injected her."

"Which would … mean he doesn't have the cure anymore." _Problem __not __solved. __Dammit._

"He still has his own blood. Claire has hers. From what I read, it's a simple matter of reducing the plasma volume of a sample of his own blood by a certain ratio, then admixing it with whole blood from her. I'm sure he can be encouraged to reproduce his results."

Peter blinked at Sylar, then looked back at his hand, deciding on a course of action for the medical care, at least. He remained undecided on how to get the cure. Sylar had a lot of anger and hate wrapped up in that last sentence, though that was hardly surprising since he'd been given a lethal injection and Mohinder had apparently declined to cure him. Yeah, Peter could understand why Sylar might be swallowed whole by dark emotions. "'Encouraged' - meaning what?"

Sylar hissed in pain as Peter slipped the splint on the finger that needed the most bracing. Then he groaned, looking positively green. Peter looked around the kitchen, spotting an empty ceramic bowl that normally held fresh fruit when the beach home was occupied. With telekinesis, he summoned it to him. It flew too fast and a little off-target. He barely managed to catch it with his hands, rather than his ability. He grunted, putting it before Sylar.

Having been nearly brained for his expression of stomach upset, Sylar had clamped down as much as possible. He looked uneasily between the bowl and Peter. "You need … control. And finesse."

"Sorry," Peter muttered. "You going to be okay?"

"It's passing," Sylar said, nodding slowly. "Let me handle wrapping my hand. You tell me what to do."

Peter agreed without speaking, removing his gloves. He began to draw out the tape and precut it into sections. He felt embarrassed and annoyed that his control over his powers was fickle.

"How _does_ your ability work?" Sylar asked with false casualness, watching Peter's preparations.

Peter shrugged. He stalled while fixing a spot where the tape had stuck to itself, arranging the strips where they were easy to get to. Claude's advice and training for his ability had been crazy and generally inaccurate. Adam had much better information, when he chose to share it. _I __suppose, __though, __that __the __expert __on __my __ability __is __**me**. _"It … works off emotions. How I feel, how I feel about other people. That activates the ability and unlocks it."

Sylar's eyes narrowed as he peeled up a piece of tape, the majority of his attention fixed on Peter. "Go on."

"You're going to need to tape the splint first, then buddy wrap it with the other finger there."

Sylar gave a small, genuine smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. "I know," he said warmly. "I know that. I am **much** more interested in hearing about your ability."

Peter looked him in the eye and then away, appreciating the attention, but not sure what to do with it. "No one's ever asked," he muttered.

"_I__'__m _asking," Sylar said immediately, leaning forward a little. "I want to know …" He caught himself from whatever he had been about to say and changed to, "I want to know what makes you special." He reached down with his left hand, curled to protect the piece of tape he was holding, and brushed his knuckles on the top of Peter's leg. "You're very special, Peter. You know that, right?"

Peter grinned, blushed and laughed nervously, pulling back. That was just too much. He hadn't asked for his ability or done anything to gain it. It had just happened to him. The praise seemed unearned. Confusion crept over Sylar's face. The other man exhaled in disappointment and began wrapping the splint.

Into the lengthening silence, Peter finally said, "When I can focus on a single, strong emotional impression - how someone made me feel, or how I feel about them - then I can use their ability and control it just fine. If I'm confused or upset, if I get freaked out and distracted, when I can't focus, then I can't focus the ability either."

"So," Sylar said, moving on to wrapping three fingers together, "with the bowl, what does that indicate about your feelings for me?"

"That I'm … confused about you." And he was. Peter knew that. He had a whole snarl of sentiments concerning Sylar. Now that he thought about it, it wasn't a big surprise that his mastery of Sylar's abilities was patchy.

Sylar reached out and laid his fingers on the back of Peter's hand. "You don't have to be."


	5. Bill of Lading

"Really?" Peter asked, rubbing his knee up and down, deliberately this time. The feelings he was sensing weren't in line with the earnest yearning and honest affection that was in Sylar's voice. True, there was some of that there, but most of what Sylar was feeling was the sort of bait-and-switch manipulation Peter had become far too familiar with through association with Adam, Nathan and his mother. In general, Peter ignored it when he felt it from people. It was the white lie of the emotional scene and people were no more constant in their emotions than they were in their facial expressions, words or even actions. However, Sylar was now trying to sell him on his trustworthiness.

"Of course," Sylar said, the queasy feeling Peter was getting off him only intensifying. "You saved me. I appreciate that. There's no reason for you to doubt me."

Peter snorted. He wasn't buying it. "Right. No reason at all. Care to explain killing me? Trying to kill Claire? Where you got all those other abilities?"

Sylar's mouth opened and hung there for a moment as he tried to pick the right words. He said, "That's- that's behind me now. My abilities are gone. That's the only reason why I killed."

"_Really?_" Peter asked again, still not feeling he was getting the truth here.

Obviously, Sylar was figuring this out, too. "Are you reading my mind?"

"No. I don't need to. Not for this." Sylar gave him such a piercing look that Peter explained, "I _can_ read minds, but I haven't tried with you. I only pick up things unintentionally if you project them or get real upset. It's as likely as talking out loud without thinking it through first. You haven't projected your thoughts since I left to get you clothes."

Sylar frowned for a moment, obviously unhappy with this. As he thought, though, the frown vanished and a smirk took its place. "You _really_ are special," he said with open admiration, looking up so his eyes could drink in Peter's face. Sylar shook his head a little. "Telepathy, too. Anything you run into, you can **_do_**, just like that." Sylar reached out his hand to stroke Peter's cheek. He started to lean in to give Peter another kiss, but Peter pulled back well before that. Baseless flattery of his ability didn't work for him any better than the 'trust me' line did.

"No. No," Peter said, denying him. "You're really hurt. You need to get some rest, digest a little and let your body recover."

"I'm fine," Sylar insisted.

"I don't believe you," Peter shot back, speaking of more than just Sylar's assessment of his physical state. "You're not fine and … I'm not really sure how I feel about all this."

"Of course," Sylar said tensely, rejected and angry. He looked away. "I should probably lie down." His disappointment was clear.

Peter shook his head. _Maybe I was misreading things. He's trying to thank me - that's all_. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to …" Sylar looked back at him and the other man felt hope. Peter pressed his lips together and looked at his own hands. "I didn't mean to shut you down like that." He stole a glance at Sylar's expression. "I liked the kiss. Thank you."

Sylar leaned in again, more slowly and tentatively than before. "One more?" he asked. Peter nodded and met him halfway, exchanging a gentle, slow press of lips. It was easy to melt into it. It felt so good - warm and soft, easy to put aside his doubts with the purity of contact and intimacy. He could smell Sylar, orange and antiseptic and underneath those, Sylar's own very human scent of maleness. Peter grunted and pulled away. He was really getting lost in it there. He blinked and swallowed, chewing his lip again, uneasy with how much Sylar could drag him into unthinking response with no more than a chaste kiss. He glanced up at the other man's face and could tell that Sylar knew exactly what he was doing and how much it was affecting Peter. He was banking on it.

That disturbing feeling of being manipulated skulked around in Peter's mind. He stood up, moving away. "We need Claire's blood, and you need to get some rest. I'll go."

"I want to come with you," Sylar said immediately.

"No," Peter responded firmly, giving him an untrusting look.

Sylar pursed his lips, looking frustrated and off-balance. "I'm sorry," he blurted out, as if aware of what was setting Peter off. "I've never had anyone try to help me just because. They always wanted something out of me. What is it that you _want_?"

That, at least, seemed very honest and Peter turned back to face him. "I want you to stop killing people. I want the world to stop being so fucked up so it stops doing things like _make_ you into a killer." Sylar was studying Peter with such intensity that it was like he was burning Peter's words into his mind. "What happened to you, with the Company, that was **_wrong_**. I want to make sure that doesn't happen again to anyone else and I want to …" Peter gestured at Sylar, "I want to do what I can to fix things for you. My parents were involved somehow with what happened to you. It wasn't my fault, but maybe I can make up for it anyway."

Peter looked down, thinking about how, in a way, the stain of the blood Sylar had split was on Petrelli hands as much as any others in the Company. "I can make up for it a little, at least." _When I get the chance, I need to read up on his Company file to see what really happened with him. All I have right now is a bunch of memories and things that make sense logically, but I'm not sure if it's the real story. More important though is to get him cured. I can research later._

He looked up at a motion. Sylar had reached out towards him, then apparently rethought the gesture. He curled his fingers in and retracted his hand. His expression was conflicted, his emotions towards Peter probably no more clear than Peter's towards him. Peter told him in a softer tone, "You said you hoped you could change. That's what I want."

Sylar looked at Peter, his eyes widening a little as those words impacted him. He gave a shallow nod, lost in thought. Peter teleported out.

* * *

><p>An hour at the Odessa high school proved fruitless. Claire wasn't enrolled there anymore. Her cell phone number was disconnected without forwarding. He went by her old address. It had burned down months before. Peter wasn't a sleuth, but when the obvious ways of tracking her down failed, he returned to the Company. Nathan knew how to find people and if he didn't, then the Company had resources. Noah was an employee. They'd know where he was and Noah would know where Claire was.<p>

Peter walked in on Nathan sitting behind the desk in the regional manager's office. Once upon a time, the position had been in the hands of a sadist named Eric Thompson. He'd occupied the office for over two decades and left an indelible stamp on the Company's North American operations. Even though a great deal of the mistreatment of prisoners could be laid at his feet, it also reflected on the founders and directors of the Company, in that they had done nothing to rein him in. It was hardly a secret. With only a few days here, Peter knew things that had happened that churned his stomach and made him want to instantly release every prisoner in the place. The sad thing was that the worst atrocities had been carried out on those destined to have their memories wiped, or already scheduled for death.

His brother was staring at a sculpture on his desk. Peter sat down across from him, looking at it, too. Nathan wordlessly pushed it closer and Peter picked it up. It was heavy - very heavy, almost absurdly so and he had to use both hands to lift it. It looked like a human heart, rendered to scale in painstaking and incredible detail, more so than Peter had seen on any medical school replica. Holding it carefully, he turned it in his hands, marveling at how perfect it was, even in the organic imperfections that came with real flesh. It bothered him a little that whoever made it must have had an actual specimen to work off of, but it wasn't like Peter hadn't had his own human anatomy course exposure to cadavers.

"A heart of gold," Peter mused, noting the bizarre irony of it. "Is this real gold?" Nathan nodded soberly. "It must be worth a fortune!" Peter added. He set it back down carefully. He didn't usually pay much attention to money, but that someone would invest so much in such a weird work of art got his attention. It had to mean something.

Nathan began quietly, "There's a man who works for the Company, one of the founders, who made that." He indicated the object with a jerk of his chin. Peter's eyes narrowed. There was something contemptuous and disgusted in Nathan's demeanor that was out of step with the situation. Nathan went on, "Bob Bishop. He's the source of most of the funding for the Company. Without him, without Kaito Nakamura, no one gets a paycheck and the whole thing dies. But with him," he raised his eyes to Peter, "with _him_, the Company lives." Nathan gave a bitter, twisted smile as he let his eyes fall back on the sculpture. "He has the Midas touch."

Peter looked down at it, abruptly realizing why Nathan was acting odd about the object. Peter grimaced, pulling away and looking reflexively at his hands, hands that had touched _that_, as if expecting to find blood on them. It looked like a human heart because it _was!_ "_Anything_ he touches?" Peter's lip curled in disgust and dismay as he stared at the heart. Why had Bob been touching _that?_

Nathan shrugged, a little amused by Peter's reaction. "He has control over it. It's not everything he touches like in the myth." He gestured at the ornament. "He meant to do that." Nathan leaned back, raising his fist to his lips, thumb inward. "I think it was a joke."

Peter shook his head slowly. "Nathan, Adam was wrong about the virus, but he wasn't off-base about how the Company needed to be destroyed."

"He was a heartless bastard, wasn't he?" Peter blinked at Nathan. "Adam?" Nathan prompted.

"Yeah. I suppose so."

"Makes sense." Nathan gestured. "That's his heart."

A small, sick part of Peter wanted to laugh. The rest was appalled. The incident with Victoria Pratt flashed behind his eyes, the acrid stench of gun smoke and flesh. He'd watched her body hit the floor without hearing the sound of her fall because his ears were still ringing from the shot. He'd known when that happened that Adam had arranged to kill her. Peter had known it just as he knew Sylar was trying to manipulate him. He'd been angry about it, but ultimately he accepted it. Adam has his reasons just as Sylar did. Just like Sylar, Adam had become twisted enough to start taking his wrath out on innocents. The question was - could such damage be undone within a person?

Peter chewed his lower lip and then looked up at Nathan, who spoke. "I've been talking to Bob. He's offered me our father's position in the Company."

"What?" Peter said, boggled that Nathan would find that attractive.

"There's no better way to control something, Peter, than by working with it instead of against it. You were the one who stopped me from holding the press conference and said we needed to handle this ourselves." He nodded slightly. "This is how we handle it."

"That's ridiculous, Nathan!" He stood up and paced, then wheeled and pointed at the grotesquery on the desk. "You can't work with someone who does things like that!"

Nathan leaned forward. "Peter … this isn't a comic book or a TV show where everything can be solved by killing the bad guy. Things are complicated. This is life; this is politics; these are human beings we're working with here, big organizations, world-shaking ideas, reality-bending powers. You and I don't know the half of it, but what Bob's offering is to teach us."

"I think I've learned enough already," Peter said roughly.

Nathan raised his brows. "Oh? Are you going to give up all your abilities? I'm told they have a shot for that."

"Yeah, it kills you!"

Nathan shrugged like that was of no consequence. "Some things are worth dying for."

Peter hesitated, trying to figure out what Nathan meant by that. He rubbed at his face. In a calmer tone, he said, "Abilities can be used responsibly. It's like any other … power that people have - guns, knives, baseball bats, flying airplanes into buildings, whatever. People have the power right now to destroy the world several times over with nuclear weapons. The only thing keeping us from it is sanity, restraint, empathy-"

"Rational self-interest," Nathan said with a shrug of one shoulder. "The power of deterrence."

Peter hesitated, then nodded as he decided Nathan wasn't really disagreeing with him. "Abilities themselves are not the problem. It's what we're doing to each other with them, or just doing to each other period, that's causing the problem."

Nathan leaned forward again. "Yeah. I agree. And I'm going to work with Bob and I'm going to get a handle on all of this, Pete. This is far more important than being a senator. Anyone can take my place there. But this … you're right that we need a certain kind of person in control of a company like this one and Bob isn't it. We're going to take over. We're going to be the heroes they need."

"'We'?"

"I can't do it without you. You're the one with the nuclear bomb, Pete."

Peter snorted, unimpressed with his brother's grandiose plans, but knowing someone had to do it. Might as well be Nathan. "Fine, but I came here for a reason. I'm trying to save someone's life and I need to find Claire to do it."

Nathan gave him a steady, assessing look before saying, "Bob was just with her. She's in California: Costa Verde."

"Is she okay?" He worried what someone like Bob might have been doing with her, if Adam's heart was any indication.

"Yeah," Nathan answered quickly and lightly enough that Peter was sure Nathan thought she was fine.

Peter nodded. "Can you give me her new phone number or her address? I need to go talk to her."

"Sure." Nathan pulled out his own phone. "Is there anything going on I need to know about, Peter?" he asked innocently as he scrolled through the choices.

"No. A guy got dropped off here a few days ago. He was injected with that shot you mentioned that strips abilities. It's also lethal. Claire's blood is part of the cure for it."

"Hm." Nathan gave him the phone number and Peter input it into his own cell phone. "Do we get anything out of curing him?" Nathan asked hopefully.

_You are **such** an asshole sometimes,_ Peter thought of his brother. With a mocking tone he answered, "We get to be the hero someone needs, Nathan."

"Hm," Nathan said again, treating Peter's comment as serious instead of sarcastic. "Well, when it comes down to it, that's what it's all about. Call if you need me."

Peter nodded and teleported out.


	6. Hand Delivered

Getting hold of Claire's blood was mostly a non-event, but Peter was interested to find that it could bring back the dead in addition to the curative properties he'd already seen demonstrated with Adam. Even more than when he had spoken with Nathan, Peter avoided mentioning who he was restoring. It was embarrassing. He didn't think Claire or Noah would understand. Noah had worked too long at the Company not to support some of their policies and even if he'd had a recent change of heart, he was still complicit. Claire was young and as a target of Sylar's and the friend of one of his victims, Peter didn't want to bring it up until he knew better how she would respond. There was so much going on in the Bennet's lives at the moment that no one asked Peter any questions he couldn't dodge.

Peter returned to the beach house to find Sylar fast asleep, face down on the couch, his sock-clad feet draped awkwardly over the arm. There were beds in the house, but Sylar had passed them up for whatever reason. Peter took a moment to sit in the recliner across from him and think about things. _What's he going to do after he's cured? With everything he knows, even without abilities … **he's**__ the sort of person we need at the Company to make sure that sort of thing never happens again. But would he do that? Or would he be worse than the people he'd be replacing? I don't really feel like I can trust him._

Peter fiddled with the bag of blood next to him and began drawing some up in a syringe. He had taken as much as Claire thought Bob Bishop had taken before. That had been enough to resurrect Noah, do testing and create at least two doses of the cure, so Peter was pretty sure he had plenty of extra. In the meantime, the surplus might not destroy the virus in Sylar's blood, but it would cure his body of the effects of privation and injury.

_It doesn't matter if I can trust him or not. He deserves life, and, as much as is safe for others, he deserves freedom. Nathan was right that you can influence someone better by working with them rather than against them. If Sylar doesn't have any abilities, then there's no reason for the Company to hold him. Most of the people they have incarcerated there could be rehabilitated. I'll tackle them after him. A rehabilitated Sylar would certainly make a good example to them, though._

Peter rose and walked over to Sylar, putting his hand on his shoulder. The man didn't so much as jump, but the snoring stopped immediately. Sylar tilted his head over, rolling his eyes to look up warily at Peter. They focused on the syringe and _that_ was when fear crossed his face. A second later he was on Peter, fighting for his life.

They crashed over the coffee table, Peter flailing in surprise, overwhelmed as much by the sudden terror and hate from Sylar as he was by the assault. Sylar, teeth bared, initially tried to strangle him, then lunged for the syringe. Peter flicked his fingers and gave it a push with telekinesis, sending it safely away from the brawl. Sylar snarled and came back to wrap both hands around Peter's throat, fumbling with his broken hand, but still gamely trying. Peter didn't blame him - if anything, it drove home Sylar's issues that he was so easily and accidentally triggered. Wrinkling his nose and tightening his lips, Peter brought his hands up to grip the other man's wrists, but that was all. Otherwise, he concentrated, focusing on his simple desire to help Sylar and his concern for the man. It was a pure emotion. Sylar found that his fingers couldn't dig in and he couldn't get the pressure he needed to throttle Peter.

Peter saw the realization on Sylar's face and felt the desperate strength fade from his hands. "Will you let me explain?" Peter asked, his borrowed ability having removed all impediment to his airway.

Panting from the adrenaline-fueled exertion on top of his already precarious condition, Sylar pulled back and Peter let go of his wrists. Sylar swallowed and looked over at the syringe. "What is that?" he demanded.

"Claire's blood."

Hope bloomed on Sylar's face. "You got it?"

"Yeah." Peter shifted, pushing Sylar off, who went immediately. Sylar scrambled across the remnants of the coffee table to snatch up the syringe. Peter let him. Nor did he interfere when Sylar took the cap off.

Sylar shot him a furtive, cautious look, and asked, "Is there more?"

Peter nodded, sitting up and rubbing his throat. He gestured towards the end table next to the recliner. "Whole bag there." Sylar rammed the needle home into his bicep. "Intravenous would probably be better," Peter mumbled, but it didn't matter and he was too late anyway.

Within a minute, Sylar was grinning in relief and unwrapping his now-unbroken-fingers, looking very gratified with the turn of events. He flexed his hand. Peter scooted over across the floor and collected the used needle from next to the other man. Conscientious as ever, he put the cap on it. Sylar turned to him, eyes dancing over Peter's face. Sylar was a little flushed with a healthy, exuberant glow. "Thank you!" he said breathily. With an intent, purposeful expression, he reached out to catch the side of Peter's face, leaning forward in a few short stages, giving Peter a chance to pull away if he wanted. Sylar looked absolutely infatuated with him, and Peter could sense the truth of that. He didn't pull away, accepting the grateful kiss.

Sylar pulled in a deep breath, feeling new life flood his body. Peter could feel the man's energy rocketing up, and with it, his passion. He kissed Peter again, letting his tongue tease along Peter's lips as wide, dark eyes bored into Peter's own. Peter felt the thrill pass through him, sending a shiver up his spine. They hardly knew each other, but that only added to the frisson. It was spontaneous and exciting, though he had to wonder how much of this desire Sylar would feel if it weren't for Claire's blood.

Something that could literally raise the dead **had** to have a tremendous effect on a person. Sylar's current state was practically drug-induced. Peter worried that Sylar's judgment was impaired, but at the same time, he was hitting Peter's weakest defense - Sylar was interested, enthusiastic and wanting him. Peter was not good at turning that away, regardless of the moral issues. And so Peter reached up and curled his fingers into the shoulder of Sylar's shirt, leaning back onto the carpeted floor and pulling the other man down over him. Sylar came with him, kissing him again and again once they were prone.

Peter cast the used needle off to the side, bringing both hands up to cup Sylar's face. He ran his fingers into the man's hair, shifting his body so he was flush with Sylar's and encouraging the other man to get on top of him. Sylar lifted off a little and hesitated, glancing down their bodies, getting a little more conscious about their bodies and entertaining second thoughts. After a beat, though, he swung his leg over Peter to straddle him and turned back to look into Peter's face. Sylar swallowed nervously and once more paused as if unsure.

_I think this is new to him_. Peter smiled. _Wow. That's wonderful. _He pulled Sylar down to him, stroking the back of his neck and mussing his hair. Peter loved how it felt. Sylar made a small noise in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, as he kissed him repeatedly, his big mouth easily covering Peter's smaller one. Peter parted his lips and was immediately given another sound like that, along with a lick from Sylar's tongue, darting in across his teeth. Peter gasped and arched up into the man, sending one hand down Sylar's side to clutch at his shirt and then the waistband of his jeans.

"Whoa …" Sylar lifted away from him, scanning Peter's face. He licked his lips, breathing hard. "Are we … really? I mean, are you …?" He looked honestly perplexed about what was going on. It was adorable.

Peter smiled a little, finding Sylar's inarticulation to be perfectly intelligible. "If you want to." He reached up and stroked Sylar's cheek. "Whatever you want to do. You're the one who started it, dork." _I'm not the one who keeps kissing on me here._

Sylar grinned suddenly and laughed. He waggled his brows and leaned back in, lips teasing against Peter's as the tip of his tongue touched Peter's in a teasing touch-and-pull-away-then-touch-again routine. Sylar pulled his face back, looking absolutely delighted at the game.

"Mmm," Peter hummed. Playfulness and joy were way, way sexy. He shifted his hips side to side against the other man, tugging on Sylar's jeans with one hand and urging his head back down with the other. Sylar pressed to him fully now, all long limbs and strong, lean body, charged with energy and life. He was gorgeous and he felt fantastic on top of Peter. Peter wrapped his arms around that delicious man, grinding his groin up into Sylar's equally interested parts. Sylar kissed him like he wanted to swallow him down, becoming wet and sloppy as they went on.

Peter pulled Sylar's shirt up, growling as he used his chin to push Sylar's face to the side. He kissed and chewed across the man's still smoothly shaven cheek, licking at his ear lobe and then sucking it. He heard Sylar's breath catch and felt the man hump into him harder. Peter ran his hands up and down either side of Sylar's spine, feeling the skin smooth and warm under his fingers. He scratched him lightly, earning an immediate and intense groan. Sylar arched into him and when the other man could speak again, he whispered hoarsely, "Harder."

Peter obliged, raking his fingers down Sylar's back and sucking at his neck. Sylar tilted his head to the side to give more access, then slid his hands under Peter's neck and head, holding him where he was. That was exactly where he wanted Peter to be and Peter was happy to be there. He felt so in control, with his every suck and nip provoking twitches and moans from his partner. Sylar started trembling and shifted his weight uneasily, breathing hard and fast, muttering half-words and mere sounds. Peter made out, "please", "oh!", "yes", "God", and "almost". Sufficiently urged on by that, Peter clawed him mercilessly, glad he didn't have much in the way of nails. He bit Sylar's neck hard, feeling the other man finally stiffen and quiver, gasping irregularly.

Sylar held that moment for long seconds as Peter kept working him, before Sylar finally made a choked whimper and relaxed. Peter laid off, letting Sylar bask in the moment. He reached between them and opened his own jeans, moving his hand inside to stroke. He was hot, hard and wanting. Sylar shifted to the side, flopping down onto one shoulder in a post-orgasmic haze. He looked down at what Peter was doing. For a while he simply watched, a goofy grin growing over his features. Peter grinned, too, letting his inner exhibitionist out to play a little as he groaned and put on a show that was real, if less restrained than he might otherwise be. Finally Sylar let out a long breath and offered, "May I?"

Peter rolled over and kissed him in answer. A moment later, Sylar's big hand curled around his shaft, stroking in a steady pattern. Peter hooked his leg over Sylar's and put his hand on his hip, letting himself be jacked off and loving it. He kissed, reveling in Sylar's taste. The orange sweetness had long since vanished, but it lingered in Peter's mind anyway as a phantom flavor. He could feel the wash of affection and amazement and appreciation from Sylar. The emotions filled Peter up to bursting. He moaned and crooned into Sylar's willing mouth as the regular, warm strokes by a hand that was not his own undid him.

His peak shook him, making his eyes roll up and his back arch. He groaned as he came and stopped Sylar's hand almost immediately, panting as he recovered for several long moments. He'd managed to spurt and dribble almost entirely on the carpet, getting nothing on Sylar or either of their clothes. _That's convenient,_ he thought dazedly. Sylar released him, leaning in and tilting his face to kiss Peter tenderly and sweetly.

"That was," Sylar started, with a small shake of his head, "that was _fantastic_. Thank you." He seemed deeply, genuinely moved. Peter basked in that emotion. He wrapped it around himself like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer.

Peter pulled his underwear back up and flopped onto his back. "You're welcome." _I think that's the first time I've ever saved someone and got laid as a result. Awesome. What was that Nathan asked? Am I getting anything out of this? Uh, well, Nathan, I'm getting hot sex out of it. Surely you understand **that**__, right? Ha._ Peter chuckled, far more pleased than he usually was that today, he had gotten laid (not that getting laid was ever a bad thing). What made it different, and better, was the devotion and appreciation he could feel coming from his partner, like for at least this moment in time, Sylar worshipped the ground Peter walked on. Peter felt like he could fly, in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with abilities.


	7. Return to Sender

Peter cleaned up the mess in the living room while Sylar showered. When the other man came out, dressed and toweling off his hair, Peter paused to admire him. _He is sex on legs. That is … just amazing. Seriously amazing. Someone who looks like that actually likes me enough to fuck._ Peter chortled to himself and went back to vacuuming, hoping he was getting all the stray bits of glass and wood from the shattered coffee table. He'd already picked up everything that he could see with the naked eye.

"What's so funny?" Sylar asked.

Peter shrugged, turning off the vacuum. He was pretty sure he'd gotten everything. "I … I just feel like I'm so lucky, I guess. Happy." _Things are working out! You're nice. You like me. You're healed. I've got Claire's blood and now all we have to do is get Mohinder to do the same thing he's done before._

Sylar walked over to him and slid his hand along Peter's cheek, leaning in to kiss him. Peter tilted and responded. "You like this?" Sylar asked, and Peter felt that liberal hint of manipulation again.

"Yes, I do," he answered honestly, even while he was thinking, _What the hell is that feeling I keep getting from him?_

"I like it, too." That, too, was the truth and this time without the sense that Sylar was working an ulterior motive.

_Whatever._ Peter dismissed the information his weird ability was giving him and went to put the vacuum cleaner away. He glanced back to see Sylar pick up the bag of blood and examine it. Peter called out, "Now that we have that, we can find Mohinder, have him make the cure, and then you'll be taken care of."

Sylar looked from Peter to the bag and then back again. "What are you going to do then?"

"What, after you're cured?"

"Yes," Sylar said, with the slightest tone of vulnerability.

Peter felt butterflies at that modulation of Sylar's voice. _He cares!_ "I'm going to go back to the Company and see what I can do to fix things there." Sylar frowned down at the bag in his hand. Peter walked closer and asked, "Would you come with me?"

Sylar's head snapped up. "Come with you?"

"Yeah."

"To …?"

"To help me stop all the messed up crap the Company has been doing and make things right. You know a lot about abilities. You know the impact they can have on someone. You could help people."

Sylar's lips quirked upwards into a not-quite-a-smile. "I'm not the savior kind, Peter."

"You said at Kirby Plaza that you thought you were the hero. This could be your chance."

With way more wariness and caution than his tone of voice conveyed, Sylar said, "I don't have any abilities. What could I do?"

"Well, for one thing you could help me with that research wing. There's got to be stuff they're working on that's ethical and useful, but I haven't been able to cull it apart from the rest."

Sylar cocked his head. "You'd … really trust me with something like that?"

"Why not? You said you hoped you could change."

Sylar pulled in a deep breath and let it out. "You're serious!" he said disbelievingly.

"Yes, I am," Peter responded gravely. "I can't think of anyone else who would be more aware of how careful they should be when they're playing with people's lives."

"I …" Sylar gave Peter a momentary suspicious glance, then shut his mouth, looking down and thinking. Then he looked up and nodded, saying in an uncharacteristically small and uncertain voice, "If you'll have me."

"I'd love to," Peter said softly, moving to hook his hand around the taller man's neck and pull him down for another kiss. "I know you have a lot of skeletons in the closet. Let me know if it's too much for you, okay?"

"Sure," Sylar said, smiling through the insecurity that was surging inside of him.

Peter nodded and backed off, thinking it was getting to be too much already. He changed the subject to something more action-oriented. "Okay, we're ready then. Let's go find Mohinder."

* * *

><p>As they walked down the hall towards Mohinder's lab, Peter couldn't stop the memories of his other times here from surfacing. He'd visited here with Simone, meeting her boyfriend Isaac, the one she preferred and ultimately dumped Peter for. Peter had argued with him, taunted him and in the end incited the man to try to murder him, inadvertently causing Simone's death. For a moment of quiet, they'd both had driven home to them how fragile life was and how easily rage and arrogance could ruin everything. Then Isaac had tried to kill him again, of course.<p>

As Peter walked past the glass walls, this time accompanied by a different killer than Isaac, Peter could see someone was working within. The place was different. The room Peter had last seen as an artist's loft was now cluttered with scientific equipment. The door bore a placard that read, 'Reed Street Laboratories'. Peter tried the door. It was unlocked, so he pushed it open. Sylar crowded him, briefly bumping Peter, obviously wanting him to rush inside. Peter ignored his rude companion and called out, "Hello? Mohinder?" He heard Sylar hiss briefly behind him, but Peter didn't budge from the doorway.

Mohinder's educated, exotic accent greeted him. "Yes?" The man came around where he could see the door clearly. "Peter?" He paused, obviously thinking, then he brightened as he placed Peter's last name. "Peter Petrelli. It's good to see you. Come in. Who's your friend?"

Peter turned back, not sure how Mohinder could have failed to recognize Sylar, but he found that his 'friend' had ducked to the side and was mostly turned away. He was also slouching a lot, though from inside the room that probably wasn't apparent. Peter didn't know what to do or say about that, so he walked on inside, leaving the door open. _Well, I didn't think this would be easy to explain. Sylar and I probably should have planned or something._

"He's someone who needs your help," Peter said, walking over to the table next to Mohinder and depositing the paper bag he'd been carrying. From it he produced the bag of Claire's blood.

Mohinder, who had been frowning at the man darkening his doorstep, was immediately distracted. "What's that?" he asked.

"Claire Bennet's blood."

Mohinder sucked in air and his eyes widened. "An entire bag? Oh my …" He sounded like he was salivating.

A female voice, differently accented, sounded from one of the side rooms. "Mohinder? Is someone here?"

"Maya! Yes!" Mohinder called out excitedly. "Come here. I want you to meet Peter Petrelli. He has an ability that might be a great boon to my research _and_ he brought me something even more valuable." He held up the blood bag reverently.

The scientist's words took Peter's thoughts to the research wing atOdessa, and the glimpses he'd seen of their 'research' on Sylar's ability. His voice cold, he asked, "What sort of boon would I be to your research?" He thought about how a couple years earlier, Mohinder had initially disbelieved that Peter even had an ability, dismissing him and acting like Peter was delusional. Peter had not appreciated that.

Mohinder didn't seem to notice Peter's turn of mood. He went on enthusiastically, "Oh! I would want to start with a blood sample and then perhaps certain critical tissues. After that, I don't know. I've been trying to isolate the part of the brain that contro-"

"No!" Peter interrupted, aghast and kind of thrown that Mohinder was going in exactly the same direction as the Company. Something occurred to him in a flash as he recalled that Mohinder had previously been a taxi driver and fairly impoverished. Nathan's advice about following the money echoed in his head. "Who's funding this?"

"What?" Mohinder asked, surprised by being rudely cut off and asked such an odd question.

"_Who_ is funding this?" Peter waved at the loft. "This lab, all this stuff - it's expensive. Who set you up?"

"Oh … well …" Mohinder eyed Peter like he might not be nearly so friendly as Mohinder had previously thought, but he answered anyway. "A Mr. Bishop did. He's with a company that studies people like yourself."

Peter barely stopped himself from taking a step back. "People like me?" he asked quietly, swallowing. 'Us and them', a phrase he'd picked up while at the Odessa facility rang in his mind. There was a clear dividing line in people's minds between the trustworthy, mundane people and the barely controlled, dangerous specials they worked with, studied and captured. It was an odd attitude for a company run by specials to have, but on the other hand, the leadership had not been on the best of terms with one another, much less strangers. Anyone with an ability was a potential threat.

Mohinder watched Peter attentively, not understanding the reaction he was seeing. He hefted the nearly full plastic bag. "What's this for?"

Peter stared at it, remembering his mission here. "There's …" He took a deep breath and relaxed. He had to be friendly. He had to work with Mohinder. "There's a virus the Company has released, has injected some people with, that's lethal within a few months to anyone like me, who has an ability."

"Ah, yes," Mohinder nodded, listening. He seemed familiar with what Peter was talking about. He was familiar with it, he had the means to make a cure, and he had apparently done nothing to make more than the bare two doses he'd made previously. Peter had asked Claire if Mohinder had been by and she'd heard nothing of him. It perplexed Peter and did not elevate his opinion of Dr. Suresh. It had occurred to Peter that, as someone without an ability, Mohinder might not be all that motivated to eradicate a disease like this.

Maya spoke up, saying, "Like the one Sylar had?"

"Exactly," Peter said. "I need you to make the cure for that."

Mohinder blinked at Peter for a moment, and then proved that for all his frequent obliviousness, he had a few brain cells to rub together. In a bare whisper that Peter needed his enhanced hearing to make out, Mohinder said, "That's Sylar, at the door, isn't it? Why are you helping him? What does he have on you?"

Maya frowned at Mohinder, trying to make out why he was whispering too softly for her to hear.

Peter shook his head and answered at a normal volume. "I'm doing this because I want to. I'm trying to make things right. The Company has ruined a lot of people's lives. It's time to start using those resources to make things better."

Mohinder stared at Peter, his brows climbing as high as possible as his mouth dropped open. "And … and you think healing_ **Sylar**_ will make things**_ better?_**" he asked in total disbelief.

"Sylar?" Maya said, looking between the two men. Then, with a gasping intake of breath, she looked up at the door and stepped back. With an angry and terrified tone of voice, she almost shrieked, "Sylar!"

Peter hardly needed to glance back to confirm that Sylar had indeed revealed himself.

Sylar's voice rang out around an insufferable grin, "Hi, Maya, Mo. Did you miss me?" He sounded like he was gloating, which Peter wasn't happy about, but given that the man had been beaten badly enough to have broken bones by Mohinder, Maya and Elle, Peter could certainly understand the enmity.

Maya hissed out, "This time I will end you! I don't care who else dies!"

Peter heard a pained, angry groan from Sylar as Mohinder croaked out, "Maya!" Peter felt an ache between his eyes and a burning sensation along his skin. He staggered back, his eyes suddenly sore and his nose burning now as well. He blinked away the dark haze that had dropped over his vision and felt another ability integrate. Instantly, the symptoms vanished and he knew what she was doing.

Peter glanced back to see Sylar clutching the rail of the stairs down from the landing of the door. Sylar was staring at Peter, not Maya, blackness skimming over his eyes. The expression on his face was pleading. When he saw Peter was looking at him, Sylar rasped out, "Peter? Please. You're the only one who can …" His throat seemed to fail him as he choked.

From the floor, Mohinder managed, "Kill him, Maya!"


	8. Estimated Time of Arrival

It wasn't like Peter could deny the depth of Mohinder's hate, or how justified the man felt in it. Peter didn't think he'd be able to forgive someone who killed one of his family, either - at least, not without a lot of struggle and time. He couldn't wait for Mohinder or Maya to have that particular journey though. Focusing his intention and thinking of the desperation of one of the level 5 prisoners, Peter turned to Maya and yelled, "_**STOP!**_" The sonic expulsion threw her back, momentarily knocking her out. Her aura of death ended immediately.

Sylar and Mohinder both sucked in hoarse, strained breaths in relief. As soon as he was able, Sylar struggled down the stairs to Peter's side and got out, "Thank you … Peter."

Peter nodded at him, watching Mohinder as the scientist got to his feet. Mohinder looked distrustfully between the two of them. Peter tilted his head, picking out particular sounds and listening to Maya. She seemed okay, just stunned. He dialed back the enhanced sense on the heels of hearing Sylar inhale to speak.

"How many abilities do you have?" Sylar asked with amazement. His tone was frankly adoring.

Peter felt himself warm, especially his face. Sylar was treating him like … like Peter was a _hero_, and not an everyday hero like a paramedic or a soldier, but as someone godlike - maybe a decorated war hero or … like someone who was personally saving Sylar's life, against all reason, just because it was the right thing to do. Nothing could have touched the core of Peter's ego like that did. Thoroughly validated in a way he'd always wanted but only just glimpsed before, Peter turned on Mohinder a little more aggressively than he might have otherwise. "You're going to cure him, one way or another."

Mohinder shrank back with a slight shake of his head.

Sylar took a single, menacing step towards him and said, "You have all the ingredients, Doctor. I read your notes. It isn't a complicated process. This time, no diversions." Mohinder looked desperately around the lab and Peter tilted his head with a determined expression, raising one hand for telekinesis in case he needed to block the man's escape. Sylar went on, "Or do you really want to push this until someone_else_ gets hurt?" Sylar made a gesture towards Maya, who had woken somewhat, but was still getting her bearings. Peter didn't have to know the details of what had happened before to recognize the threat, but he also thought - hoped - it was only a threat. He could stop Sylar if it came to that, and in the meantime, it might be a useful, non-violent way to get Mohinder's cooperation.

"Help us, Mohinder," Peter asked, his words clipped.

"You're my only hope," Sylar said with a smirking twist to his lips. Peter puzzled over what Sylar was so damn amused by in that exchange, and although there was a familiar ring to the words, he couldn't quite place it. Sylar's incomprehensible humor stirred Mohinder's anger and he drew himself up, but said nothing. Sylar nudged Peter's arm and said more quietly, "I'll handle the good Doctor if you can keep an eye on _her_." Peter glanced over at Maya, who had regained both her senses and her feet by now. Sylar added, "Don't let her looks fool you. She's killed more people than _**I**_ have."

Peter gave Sylar a slightly wide-eyed look of surprise, then snapped his attention back to Maya with a curt nod. For one thing, he wanted to see her reaction to that accusation. She was angry and defiant, but there was no denial. Fortunately by having her ability, Peter was also immune to it. She seemed to have gathered that and didn't try anything for the moment aside from glaring daggers at himself and Sylar. Behind him, Peter could hear Sylar and Mohinder talking.

Sylar said, "Well, Doctor, get started. Unless you happen to have that other dose lying around here somewhere. No, never mind. Even if you did, I wouldn't trust it unless you made it right in front of me."

"It was put to much better use than with you," Mohinder sneered. "A young boy has his mother now. I should have killed you when I had the chance."

"But you _didn__'__t_," Sylar sneered back. "Too busy getting off on the idea of the Company experimenting on me a little more, were you?"

There was a long, pregnant pause that gave truth to Sylar's charge. Finally Peter heard Mohinder move to a bench and begin work. In a slightly less self-righteous tone, Mohinder said, "Does Peter know that you _shot_ Maya the last time you were here?"

Sylar barked a short laugh. "She's obviously fine. You'd already told me of the cure when I pulled the trigger. And if you'll recall, she was trying to kill me. Again."

Mohinder worked quietly for a little longer before saying, "Have you told him that you held a little girl hostage?"

"A little girl who is _also__ perfectly __fine_. What was I supposed to do? Leave her at your apartment all alone for Elle to find?"

"You killed her parents!" Mohinder hissed.

"Two years ago," Sylar responded without emotion.

Mohinder slammed something down on the bench and spat out, "Like that makes it better? There's no _time __limit_ to that sort of thing!"

For a long moment, there was complete silence. Finally Mohinder said, "Why aren't saying anything? Where's your snappy comeback to _that?_"

In a voice so devoid of feeling it was painful for Peter to hear, Sylar said, "I have none. You're right. Some things can't be made right."

Peter backed up a step, getting closer to Sylar while still watching Maya, who was getting restless. Her eyes darted between Sylar and Mohinder. Peter said gently, "Sylar? It's going to be okay." He tried to infuse hope into his words and let Sylar know he wasn't alone in all of this. At the same time, he understood and agreed with Mohinder's point, but Peter didn't know what to do about it. Lashing out didn't help anything. To the scientist, Peter growled, "Mohinder, get back to work."

Mohinder scoffed at both of them, but turned to fiddle with a machine. He flipped a switch, starting a spinning centrifuge. He took up the bag of Claire's blood and drew out some of it, measuring it into a capped glass container. When he was done, he said quietly, "When the separation is done, we can combine them and that's it." Mohinder pulled in a breath and asked Sylar, "What are you going to do once you get your powers back?"

Peter was only a few feet from Sylar and even though his empathy worked a lot better when he was looking at someone, he still felt the waves of trepidation and fear start coming off the man. Peter really hadn't clued to what Mohinder had said until he felt the emotional reaction. Honestly, he might have missed it altogether if Sylar hadn't started very quietly freaking out, giving not a single outward sign of his state.

Peter mentally reviewed that last sentence. _Wait__ … __get__ your __powers __back? _That was important! _What __the__ hell? _If Sylar had known that and neglected to mention it … it was like a kick in the gut. With the dread pouring off of Sylar, it was impossible that he hadn't known. Peter didn't say anything - not right that second. He was too busy thinking about that and trying to decide if Mohinder was lying in order to undermine them.

"None of your business," was all Sylar managed as an answer, which was damning enough as far as Peter was concerned. There was still a hint of doubt, but Mohinder's statement, combined with Sylar's emotions, told Peter all he needed to know.

Peter turned his head just enough to see Sylar with a sidelong glance. He repeated Mohinder's words, "'Get your powers back?'"

Mohinder straightened, sensing a weakness he could use to divide the two men. "You didn't know?"

Peter could feel even more strong emotions layering onto things in Sylar: anger, desperation, despair, bitterness and a keening sort of begging hope. Sylar turned towards him. "It won't change anything, Peter. Nothing. I still meant everything I said." He hesitated, but Peter's expression remained stony. "I won't kill any more. I promise!" Sylar's voice took on a raw, genuine quality that pulled at Peter's heartstrings, but Peter had only recently been duped by Adam into nearly ending the world. He thought about all of those moments when he'd believed Sylar despite the feeling of being manipulated. _Is__ he__ telling__ the__ truth__** now**__?__ I __**think**__ he__ is,__ but __then__ again__ I__ believed__ Adam._

"You really didn't know!" Mohinder said brightly, laughing. It did not help the scientist's case.

Peter scowled at Mohinder. Behind the man, the centrifuge clicked off. Sylar looked between it and Peter, awash in tortured nerves. There inside that machine was the key to regaining his powers … and to his life. Peter sighed and thought about telling his brother that it wasn't the abilities that caused deaths, but people using them. Quietly he said to Sylar, "You could have told me."

Sylar's eyes fixed on Peter's as hope grew.

"You can't _believe_ him!" Mohinder said, seeing his opportunity to sway Peter slipping away.

Sylar said quickly, "I only did it because of my ability and what the Company did to me. You know that, Peter. I can be better. I want to be, for you. Please let me prove it."

"He's lying!" Mohinder burst out. "He lied to me when he was Zane, he lied to Maya and now he's lying to _you!_"

"I'm not _lying_," Sylar tried to counter. His track record looked pretty bad, all right. "Not this time!" He bit his bottom lip and looked like he was about to cry, straining with tension, trying to will Peter to trust him.

Peter didn't really need trust, he realized. There were certain facts of the case that made a difference, whether Sylar was telling the truth or not. He looked past Sylar to Mohinder, asking, "If you don't give him that injection, will he die?" That fact Peter had had confirmed by the facilities manager, not Sylar, so he was pretty sure of it. If Sylar regained his abilities … so what? He'd be more dangerous, true, but he didn't have teleportation or super-speed, he didn't have invisibility or shape-shifting. He could explode, but Sylar had already shown that even for him, that was beyond the pale. Peter would just have to see.

Sylar turned to Mohinder with the beginnings of a relieved smirk. "Don't lie now, Doctor. We all know how wrong that is."

Peter waited for Mohinder's answer and it finally dragged out of the scientist. "Yes, but he deserves that death for everything he's done!"

Mohinder managed to hit one of Peter's … well, pet peeves made it sound trivial and hot button issues made it sound reactionary. Maybe it was better to say that Peter had a personal grudge against the idea that people 'deserved' to be hurt or killed, regardless of what they'd done. More calmly than he felt, he said, "Mohinder? Your centrifuge went off. Finish the cure."

Deflated and angry, Mohinder removed the vial and set about adding the correct, separated fluid into the previously prepared container. He agitated it to mix it, taking out a tiny measure of his frustrations with the motion. Maya came over near him, watching everyone, looking for an opportunity to spoil things.

Sylar turned back to Peter, boundless gratitude on his face in a way that once again made Peter feel like the most special person on the planet. Sylar could really light up the room when he tried, Peter thought, momentarily dazzled by it. He worried about the depth of emotional response he had to this man. Peter had always been prone to falling in love easily, but he feared he was just being used here. Sylar reached over to stroke his fingertips along the back of Peter's hand. The skin tingled where he touched, like Peter could feel little emotional sparks flying between them, forming a connection. "Thank you," Sylar said softly, and Peter felt his stomach somersault at those simple words. He _**so**_ wanted it to be true.

Apparently the words had an effect on Mohinder as well, though not the same one. His voice dripping with venom, he said, "You're not the first person he's seduced, Peter."

With an angry, I've-really-had-enough-of-you expression, Sylar looked back. "Shut up, Mohinder. You're just _jealous._"

_Mohinder __is __gay?_ Peter wondered sort of randomly, but it did let him see past the blinding brilliance of being in the spotlight of Sylar's intense attention.

Mohinder snapped, "I was talking about _**Maya!**_ I wouldn't have you if you were the last man on Earth! I had my chance," Mohinder said, looking Sylar up and down, "and I'm glad I didn't take it."

Sylar snorted and waved his hand dismissively at Mohinder. "Yeah, right. I wouldn't have fucked you with Zane's dick. Just finish the drug, Mohinder, and we'll leave you to your Doctor Frankenstein impression."

It looked like Mohinder was preparing the final syringe, but he spoke as he did it, making one last argument to try and sway Peter. "He's going to go back to killing after this, Peter. He can't help it. He can't stop it. He's an animal, driven by instinct. He said it himself - his ability made him do it. He'll say _anything_ to get you to help him, because he's an addict."

Doubt crossed Peter's face. That was true - if Sylar's ability had made him kill, then even though it absolved him of blame, it didn't absolve Peter for giving that same ability back to him. Even if Sylar would die without the injection … with it, how many might he kill?

Sylar jumped in. "Peter, you said that what you wanted was for me not to kill anymore. I'll give you what you want, you have my word." He paused and then added pleadingly, "Please believe in me." His face told of just how much that mattered to him.

"The word of Gabriel Gray is worthless!" Mohinder taunted. "You _will _kill again. It's in your nature!"

"No, I won't!" Sylar snarled at him and spat, "But if I made an exception for anyone, it would be _you._"

Maya spoke up, "It doesn't matter if he has his ability or not. He killed my brother just last week when he did not have his ability! He _murdered_ him because Alejandro didn't trust him and was trying to warn me against Sylar, just like he is threatening Mohinder now!"

"Is that true?" Peter asked in a quiet voice that got everyone's attention.

"What?" Sylar asked, momentarily thrown.

"Were you a killer without your ability, too?" A deep sense of disappointment settled in the pit of Peter's stomach as he thought about how he really didn't know very much about Sylar. He could have been a mass murderer _before_ getting his ability. Peter didn't know. He'd let himself be swayed by emotion, like he always did. Was that a mistake?

Sylar looked lost, as if he were being blamed for something he hadn't even realized was wrong. Behind him, Mohinder gloated. Sylar's lip curled suddenly and he spun, snatching the finished syringe from Mohinder's hand before bolting towards the back door.

Maya called out after him, "You will not get away this time either!" and Sylar was staggering and falling before he ever made it to the exit. Mohinder clutched at his own neck and Peter felt the prickling wash of Maya's power flow over him and fail to take effect.

Peter had a moment here, he knew, when he could use his ability to capture Sylar, who was admitting his guilt by giving up and fleeing, or he could stop Maya from a very understandable act of vengeance. Peter had never been a big fan of revenge as a moral justification for hurting people. He understood it, but that didn't make it right. He turned to Maya and tapped into another ability from level 5, as he didn't think his mastery of Sylar's telekinesis, at the moment, was going to have the sort of finesse he needed. He raised both hands and curled his fingers into claws. A second later Maya went rigid and her ability cut off.

Behind him, he heard Sylar stumble to his feet and make good on his escape. Apprehension and reluctance filled Peter. _Am__ I __doing __the __right __thing?__ Is __my __trust __as __misplaced __in__ Sylar __as __it __was __with __Adam? Are any of these people I want to save able to become better people?_ He recalled his brother's words that people were complicated and things couldn't be solved by killing the bad guy. He released Maya. She turned on him viciously, punching and clawing at him. Mohinder at least had the sense to stay back. He knew Peter could survive death itself and who knew what else. The scientist didn't bother to attack him.

Peter shoved Maya away after it was clear she was going to vent all her frustrations on him instead of Sylar. He teleported out. He had better things to do than be a scratching post. For one thing, he had to find out just how much he'd fucked things up, _this__ time_.


	9. On Time Delivery

Peter's search for Sylar didn't take him very long, but it was easily enough time that Sylar could have completed the injection. It helped that Peter could be invisible and teleport. He found Sylar walking down the sidewalk at a rapid pace, glancing around surreptitiously now and then to see if he was being followed. Peter would have expected the man's enhanced hearing to have picked him up, but Sylar gave no sign of noticing. Even several strides behind him, Peter could feel the disappointment and angst washing off of Sylar. He, too, felt duped and taken advantage of.

Peter thought about Simone's death again and the fragility of life. She had been so strong, so alive, and then a terrible, angry mistake had ended all that. Sylar came off as so tough and unfeeling - the way he'd acted for Mohinder and Maya had been all bravado and bluff. There had been a difference when he talked to Peter and it wasn't (just) that he was trying to manipulate him. Sylar really cared. He really felt. He really hoped. And now, Peter knew as he silently, invisibly followed Sylar, the man was really devastated inside by his loss. Sylar had his powers back, so it wasn't about that. It had to be about losing _Peter_, and the new life Peter had been offering.

At the next block, Sylar ducked into a parking garage. In a shadowed corner, he leaned against the wall and covered his face, shoulders slumped as he stood there quietly and breathed heavily. Peter didn't know how far the man might collapse, thinking he was alone. Peter had already been clandestine enough and he'd confirmed what he'd expected - that Sylar's feelings had been genuine, even if he'd been lying to protect himself on some of the details. Peter dropped the invisibility. "Hey … Sylar?"

The other man jerked upright, eyes scanning the darkness and finding Peter immediately. Sylar started to raise a hand, fingers extended, but a moment later he let it fall, resignation and defeat settling on his features. "Come here to play hero, Peter?" Sylar forced out with tired ridicule.

Peter smiled a little, recognizing the same false front Sylar had used in Mohinder's lab, the same tone he'd used when Peter had opened that door in Odessa. "Yeah," he said softly, speaking to Sylar's heart rather than the façade he was trying to project. "Can I?" _Will __you __let __me__ save __you?_

Sylar swallowed and regarded him intently, not daring to let himself hope this time. Slowly and bitterly he hazarded, "I'm sure the Company, or Mohinder, will find a way to cut my ability out of my brain eventually."

"That's not what I meant. I'm not going to allow that sort of thing to happen anymore, to anyone," Peter said seriously. "I hope you won't either."

Sylar took two slow steps towards Peter, who glanced at him and looked away, but did nothing else to indicate the approach was unwelcome. Sylar took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Whether he dared or not, hope was rising inside of him. Sylar conceded grudgingly, "I'll admit it wasn't very high on my to-do list."

Peter smiled slightly again, the word 'to-do' bringing to mind his brother. An odd thought flashed through his head of introducing Sylar as his boyfriend to Nathan. Peter curbed further thoughts in that direction. They were premature. "What _is_ on your to-do list, Sylar?" _Me?_ He tried to curb that thought, too, but he was feeling a rising interest in his companion and he could feel himself responding.

Sylar looked out across the parking garage, eyes roaming over the cars restlessly as he considered the question. He looked back at Peter. "To be honest, I hadn't worked that out yet." He slouched a little, relaxing and giving up a bit of his invincible persona.

"I made you an offer, before," Peter pointed out. "It still stands."

"Even after what happened in Mohinder's lab?"

Peter shrugged, still looking away, trying to shield himself from feeling too much, too intensely. He needed to _think_. "I understand you not trusting me. We hardly know each other. It's the murder I'm having trouble with." _Or __maybe __murders, __plural._ "Of everything you said to me, the thing I most need to know wasn't a lie is that you want to change." He took a deep breath and turned fully to face the man, but only looking at Sylar's shoes. They were the sneakers he'd been wearing in Odessa, battered but not beaten, chained to that gurney. "Was that true?"

Sylar was silent for a long time. Peter finally raised his eyes to the man's face. Sylar was thinking, which Peter thought was a good thing. There were a lot of ramifications to think through first. Sylar said, with his voice as earnest and sincere as Peter had ever heard it, "You have telepathy, Peter. Read my mind. I want you to be sure."

"You _tell_ me," Peter said, meeting Sylar's eyes, "and I'll be sure. The word of Gabriel Gray is a long way from worthless. It means a lot to me." _All__ I __have __is __your __promise, __no __matter __what __you__'__re __thinking __now._ All along, Peter had had the option of reading Sylar's mind, but if he was going to trust him, then he was going to _trust_ him. Telepathy, when trying to have a relationship with someone, struck Peter as cheating, like snooping through their diary. And anyway, he didn't want to find out how Sylar felt right now - Peter already knew that. What he wanted to do was shape how Sylar would act in the future, by making him commit to something and stick to it. It wasn't like Peter hadn't been paying attention when his father had tried to drum into him how to manipulate people.

Sylar looked down, away, fidgeted, and then looked back, his shoulders hunching a little as he slouched further, intimidated by what Peter was demanding of him. Putting words to it, out loud, was tougher than just letting Peter read it in his mind, especially if he wasn't really decided. He was being forced to take a stand, one way or the other. "Yes, that was true. It is … is true. It's true right now. It's-" He stopped speaking to chew his lip, then settled himself as he looked at Peter, hoping that answer was good enough.

"Okay," Peter said simply, getting what he wanted. As much as it was phrased as a true/false answer, Peter knew it was more complicated. That Sylar recognized that, too, made Peter trust him more rather than less. He smiled and dropped the subject, because it was as settled as it was going to be. "Wanna go get some pizza?"

Sylar exhaled a laugh of relief. He grinned and colored. "Yes. Yes, I would, Peter."

* * *

><p>They walked and rode the subway to get to a pizza place they'd both been to before and both liked. Peter was pleased to find something normal they both shared, even if it was just a restaurant. They made small talk while waiting for their food, finding out other interests and getting to know one another. It was sometime after the first couple slices of pizza had been consumed before Peter worked himself up to ask, sort of out of the blue, "Hey, uh, was that, earlier today, just sort of a one-off, or would you like to date? Or something? … Or maybe something else, you know, if you didn't want to?" <em>Wow, <em>_Peter. __That __might __be __the __smoothest __thing __you__'__ve __ever __said._

Sylar gave him a deer-in-the-headlights stare, pizza raised halfway to his mouth. "Uh … w-what?"

_Well, __not __that__ Sylar __is __much __better,_ Peter thought, amused. He tried again to get his point across. "I mean … at the beach house. Was that just a side effect of Claire's blood, or did, I mean, do you really …" He grunted in frustration and took a bite of pizza, giving up on the sentence. Hopefully Sylar could figure it out. Peter had been a lot more suave earlier when he was certain of what Sylar wanted, and that he wanted it as well.

"Um, uh," Sylar coughed roughly. "Uh, yeah. Dating. Dating sounds good."

Peter grinned broadly, perking up and straightening in his seat. _Awesome!_He was relieved and tickled pink. Had he been able to see himself, he would have noticed his chest was puffed out. Sylar raised a brow and then blushed a little, looking down at his pizza slice, smiling and giving a small shake of his head. Peter was beaming at the room in general, feeling like life was pretty damned good all of a sudden.

They both finished their current slices without speaking, not wanting to ruin the moment. As Peter reached for another piece, Sylar twitched the tray away from him. Peter looked up in puzzlement. Sylar was gazing at him from beneath his impressive brows, his face a study in hunger and desire. He said, "Speaking of side effects, you _do_ know that I just got a second dose of that stuff, right?"

Peter looked at the half-eaten pizza. The edge was off his appetite, and yet he wasn't feeling stuffed or over-full. He swallowed and looked up at Sylar, licking his lips slowly. He watched Sylar watching him, eyes following the course of Peter's tongue. His mouth felt suddenly dry and he became aware of his heart thudding in his chest. "Uh … yeah," Peter squeaked a little. "I-I think we could get this to go, don't you think?"

"I'd love to," Sylar responded, getting out of his seat with enough alacrity that Peter felt truly complimented.

* * *

><p>"You know, sometimes I don't feel so bad about taking advantage of my family's resources," Peter said as he looked up into Sylar's handsome face. They were standing in the kitchen of the beach house now. A small part of Peter's mind wondered if he should be worried about being alone with a re-powered Sylar, but for once he wasn't getting the least worrisome signals from his companion. Sylar's lust for him was all-encompassing at the moment and it seemed directed towards his body rather than his brain.<p>

"How's that?" Sylar said, crowding close and looming over him. Peter turned so his buttocks were against the granite countertop. Sylar moved in front of him, putting his long arms on either side, trapping him.

Peter was happy with that. "Well, we have this wonderful place all to ourselves." He hooked his fingers into the belt loops on Sylar's jeans, tugging the man against him. He wanted contact and he got it.

Sylar straightened a bit more, staring down at him. He rested his white, even teeth against his lower lip as he looked at Peter. Peter watched as Sylar tugged his lip free and smiled nervously, still waiting, still wanting … yet not acting.

_Come __on,_ Peter thought. _Do __something! __Are __you __just __going __to __stand __there __looking __at __me, __gnawing __at __your __lip? __I__ know __you __want __me._ But no. Sylar was just going to stand there, locked up with indecision, uncertainty and a growing fear. Peter took the lead. He reached up to loop his hands behind the man's neck, pulling him in for a slow, gentle, reassuring kiss. Sylar made a faint noise of approval and relief. Peter echoed it louder as Sylar opened his mouth and let Peter's tongue explore it. He still tasted of cheese pizza and coke.

Peter broke for a moment to smile about that before returning to the kiss. He filed that away under the many interesting flavors of Sylar. His tongue tickled along the man's teeth and then swept across Sylar's own tongue. Peter tilted his head, their mouths joined as closely and tightly as possible, his tongue probing deeply. It felt so good. Sylar's hands left the counter to hold Peter's back, just under his shoulder blades. They gripped more firmly as Peter ran his tongue along the roof of Sylar's mouth and then back down to tangle with his tongue again. Sylar moaned, pushing into him with his hips, too.

Peter groaned in response, running his fingers up into Sylar's hair as they slowly ground against one another. He continued to plunder the man's mouth, touching every inch of him and leaving no part unexplored. Sylar was melting in his arms, hardening fast against his groin. The man's fingertips flexed with alternating pressure against Peter's back and he breathed heavily against Peter's cheek. Sylar's eyes were shut, letting Peter drown him with sensation and pleasure.

Peter clawed at Sylar's scalp, getting a whimper and a surging thrust against him that pushed him painfully against the counter. Sylar's hands dropped to the small of his back, finding his desire to drop them lower blocked by the granite. So instead he stroked up and down Peter's back, rubbing against him. Peter finally pulled away from the kiss, feeling light-headed and incredibly turned on. That was one of the best kisses he'd ever had in his life. He pushed Sylar back a little bit and then levitated, just enough to sit on the counter, which put him an inch or two above his partner.

Sylar's brows rose as he looked up at him and then he grinned, delighted with the inversion of their heights. He brought his face in as if to kiss Peter's cheek, but nipped him instead, tugging at the skin. He let go and repeated it with the corner of Peter's mouth, then his upper lip. Now it was Peter who whimpered, running his fingers through Sylar's hair over and over, wrapping his legs around him and hooking his feet together behind the man. Sylar bit Peter's lower lip, running his tongue back and forth along it while he held it between his teeth. Peter arched against him at that glorious, tickling sensation. "Oh, God," Peter groaned.

Sylar let him go and reached up to rest two fingers against Peter's chin. Peter turned his head to nip at them, but Sylar just smiled and dropped them out of his range. He let his hand fall to Peter's chest, drifting over his shirt. Peter immediately took care of that, hungering for the feel of skin on skin. He yanked off his shirt and threw it aside, baring himself. Sylar's eyes lit up in appreciation. He licked his lips and leaned in to kiss and then suck gently at Peter's collarbone. His hand drifted up and down Peter's chest, then over to his nipple. His thumb stroked across it and Peter arched again, clinging to Sylar's shoulders. Sylar's other hand was at the small of his back, a steady pressure to hold Peter to him.

"Oh, God," Peter groaned out a second time. "I wanna fuck! Please."

"Okay," Sylar said, pausing from the teasing progress he was making downward, towards Peter's other nipple. "What do you want me to do?" Fear and anxiety spiked in the other man even though Sylar's words were calm.

"You ever topped?"

"Uh … no."

Nor did he want to, best as Peter could tell from the reluctance and lack of happy anticipation. "Okay. You want to do what we did before?"

Sylar put his face into Peter's neck, nuzzling and kissing, while both hands stroked Peter's back. Between rooting motions against Peter's neck he murmured, barely discernable, "I want you to fuck me."

It was a hard-won request, like it was a state secret or something. Peter held the back of Sylar's head with one hand, scratching lightly, while the other held his shoulder. "You ever done that either?" he asked very gently.

Sylar made a tiny shake of his head, vulnerable and insecure. He murmured something else that all Peter could make out was "… have me."

Peter chuckled and reassured his ashamed companion, "I will have you every way you'll let me. You are so sexy, so hot. This is incredible. I am so glad … Oh!" Peter groaned as Sylar's activity on his neck had increased steadily with his words, culminating in a hard bite as he pulled Peter to him forcefully, growling slightly.

Sylar pushed his hands under Peter's ass, lifting him from the counter. Peter could feel a careful, delicate use of telekinesis, along with quite a bit of muscular strength, holding him. "Bedroom?" Sylar asked. He probably intended to carry him in there, but Peter didn't want to wait. He teleported them instead. Sylar jumped slightly, but he didn't lose his hold. He moved them to the bed and lowered Peter onto it. Peter hung on and dragged Sylar over him, kissing him deeply again. Sylar melted as Peter used the better position to grind up against him.

They kissed one another time after time until Peter was panting and feeling a rising appetite for more. He wanted skin against skin, pressure, stimulation, and thrusting. He wasn't getting enough and it was like not getting enough air. He broke away, paradoxically pushing Sylar off of him. "Clothes - get them off," he grunted, rolling to the side of the bed and pawing at the nightstand. He found what he wanted, which was why he'd picked this particular bedroom to teleport into.

Sylar looked up from undressing and said, mystified, "Your parents keep condoms and lube at the beach house?"

"My _parents _have two adult sons. We might be Catholic, but none of us are innocent. Or stupid." He shucked off his own pants, socks and shoes, then took a moment to admire Sylar's body. Sylar flushed and looked away at the open scrutiny. "You look fantastic," Peter declared. As good without clothes as with, which was actually pretty uncommon. Of course, it was possible Peter was terribly biased at the moment.

Peter gestured at the bed. "Get on your back. I'd like to do this where I can see your face." _Watch__ your __expressions, __kiss __you, __touch __your __chest,__ caress __you, __see __you __come __undone __because __of __me__ … __oh __wow, __yeah, __that__'__s __what __I __want __to __see!_

Sylar arranged himself, one hand behind his head and the other at his side. Peter climbed between his legs, noting the man's erection had unsurprisingly flagged a little, probably from trepidation. Peter could take care of that. He set the tube of lubricant partly under his leg, where his body heat would warm it. Then he leaned over to kiss the top of Sylar's belly, under his sternum.

His lips came down unflinchingly over the purpled scar that marked Sylar, a souvenir of Kirby Plaza, kissing over it and down like it was any other part of the body. Peter felt Sylar tense at the reminder of his mortality and he reached over to touch Peter's shoulder. Peter rolled his eyes to look up, scooting a little so his knees were against the inside of the man's bare thighs. He kissed across the flat planes of belly, rubbing his cheek against the body hair. Sylar looked concerned and pleased, eager but afraid. His hand rolled slowly around Peter's shoulder and Peter crooned softly.

"Mm," Peter hummed, kissing him again and breathing in his scent. He licked and kissed, running a hand over Sylar's chest and through his chest hair while the other hand supported Peter's weight. Sylar moved on to petting Peter's hair and made a pleased noise, shifting under him restlessly, like he wanted more. Peter's mouth drifted downward. Sylar's breathing sped up and his hand, instead of petting, began to card through Peter's hair, making a fist and releasing it a couple times. Peter looked up at him again, poised over his navel.

"You don't have to do that, Peter," Sylar said. He was a little apprehensive in addition to getting intensely aroused.

"Don't have to do what?" Peter asked, bending to kiss the soft, hairy skin next to his belly button.

"Suck me," Sylar answered, panting. "You don't have to."

Peter kissed a little lower. "Are you saying you don't want me to?"

Sylar shifted suddenly, squirming uneasily when Peter's chin bumped him. "I don't know!"

Peter lifted away, sitting up and stroking Sylar's thighs. He looked down at Sylar's penis, rock-hard as far as he could see, then up to his face, which was alarmed and turned on at the same time. Sylar's mouth was open around his panting and his eyes were wide. _Blow__ jobs __- __off __the __menu __for __now.__ Too __bad.__ I__ like __giving __those._ Peter smoothed his hands up Sylar's legs to his groin. "Can I touch?"

"Yeah." Sylar nodded, relaxing some since Peter had backed off.

Peter let his fingers skim over the sensitive, satiny flesh and was gratified when Sylar threw his head back, shutting his eyes and whimpering. Peter had been a little concerned he might freak out about that, too, but apparently not. Peter ran a finger over the tip, smearing the slick precome that had collected there. His fingertip swirled a circle around the opening, spiraling out until he worked it over the flaring ridge of the glans.

Sylar moaned and heaved his hips upward tensely. "You should … now? Do me?"

"I'm going to make you come first," Peter murmured, making a C-shape with thumb and forefinger, sliding it down Sylar's shaft. The man trembled in want.

"First?" Sylar bleated.

"Yeah," Peter breathed, adjusting his seat so he could bring his other hand in to do the same, starting at the top and slowly working down Sylar's length. His first hand went back to the top to repeat, one after another band of pressure from tip to root. Sylar dropped both hands to the bed spread and made fists in it. He groaned, moving his hips in short, fitful motions. Peter kept it up, unhurried. His eyes went back and forth between Sylar's face, in a transport of arousal, flushed and beaded lightly with sweat, his lips trembling; and Sylar's cockhead, which gradually swelled even further with each stroke, darkening in color until Sylar was right on the edge of the point of no return. His body was primed for ejaculation and Peter gave a sultry, cocky grin. He was totally in control and loving it.

Peter spat on his hand and took Sylar's hot, needy flesh into his palm, rubbing his thumb up and down the frenulum while his palm cupped and massaged the spongy head, quick and firm now. Sylar gasped, eyes still shut, and made an inarticulate, guttural noise that choked off as he came. His hands clenched even tighter to the bed spread, lifting it from the mattress as his knees pulled back and the tendons on his neck stood out in relief. Peter's own penis, stiff and aching between his legs, bobbed in sympathy. Peter wanted him so bad.

Peter lost no time. He pushed those knees the rest of the way up and reached for the condom, unrolling it over himself. Next was the lubricant, which he uncapped and squirted out a lot more than he probably needed. He tossed the tube and the condom wrapper over the side of the bed. Sylar's eyes followed them dazedly as he was still trying to recover from his peak. Peter leaned forward, putting his weight on his mostly clean hand next to Sylar's side. He moved in for a kiss, teasing and tantalizing, making small motions with his face and almost, but not quite kissing his partner. Sylar tried to meet him at first and then quickly surrendered, parting his lips wantonly with the most sexually submissive expression Peter had seen. Sylar gave a deep, satisfied groan as Peter finally pressed the kiss home, slipping his tongue inside that willing, open mouth.

The knuckles of Peter's other hand brushed the inside of Sylar's leg, smoothing over his buttock and then his anus. Sylar tensed, his breathing speeding back up. He looked into Peter's eyes, his expression asking, hoping, 'can I trust you?' Peter kissed him again lightly and carefully, turning his hand to spread the lube across him. Sylar's eyelids flickered and then he shut his eyes once more, lolling his head back and clearly trying to relax. Peter kissed his chin and then his neck, recalling how much Sylar had enjoyed Peter chewing and sucking on him before. He slicked himself last of all, shifting his knees and hips to line up better.

He hesitated. _I__ need __a __pillow __under __his __ass. __Well__ … __there __are __other __ways._ He lifted Sylar carefully with telekinesis, prompting the man to open his eyes for a moment to regard Peter, before shutting them again as Peter's cock nudged against him. "You with me?" Peter asked.

"Completely," Sylar answered immediately, his voice deep and thick. Sylar moved his hand over to where Peter was still supporting his weight and held his wrist. Sylar's other hand was balled in the bedspread again.

Peter pushed against Sylar's body slowly, feeling him open, hot and tight around him.

"Ohh …" Sylar whined softly, breathing harder as he was entered there for the first time.

Peter pulled back a little and ran two fingers over and around Sylar's asshole, watching him arch at the new touch. _He__'__s __so __responsive. __Oh __God, __he__'__s __so __sexy. __And __he __**likes**__ me!_ Peter leaned into him again, guiding his cock, looking down to watch as it pressed inside by half-inches at a time. Sylar arched again, his grip on Peter's wrist tightening. Peter pulled back and forth in a tiny rocking motion, even though every instinct was telling him to slam it home. There was only one first time, though - he wanted to make it good. He pressed in a little deeper and Sylar jerked and gasped, but he sure as hell didn't complain. Peter worried anyway and so he bent over to kiss his chest, waiting for the ring of muscle to relax.

His first indication was Sylar's hand easing on his wrist. A moment later Peter started moving again.

"You are," Sylar got out around rasping breaths, "_**amazing**_." Peter smiled up at the man's awe-struck face. A strong tingle ran from Peter's crown to his toes, setting off secondary waves in his groin. Sylar was doing that 'I worship you' thing again and Peter had not thought this whole situation could get any hotter. He'd been wrong. His smile broadened to a grin as that tingling started up all over his skin with sparks of sensation, almost like the feelings of pins and needles but unbearably _good_. His toes and fingers curled, muscles tightening of their own accord.

He pushed in more, at least halfway inside now and able to move freely. Peter made a helpless noise, parts of his body going on autopilot and parts of his brain just plain shutting down. It wasn't the sex, incredible as that was. Something else was happening to him and it was _awesome_. He couldn't have fought it if he'd wanted to. His thighs were starting to quiver and his eyes were rolling up in his head.

Sylar ran his hand up and down Peter's forearm and the other reached up to caress his cheek as Peter sagged forward, pushing into him with small prods as what brain cells he had left overrode his instincts and forced him to keep taking it slow. "This is fantastic," Sylar told him. "You are so kind. I know you're being so careful. Thank you. Thank you." Sylar pulled his knees back a bit more and tilted his hips up to better meet Peter's thrusts, and as far as Peter could tell, took over the telekinesis. Apparently, Sylar could see that Peter had lost some of his higher function, because he started giving Peter directions. "Come on. It's okay. It's okay. It's all good now. You are _so__ good_. Peter. Peter. Peter. Fuck me, Peter. _Harder_."

That was all Peter's fogged brain needed to let go the bare shred of control he'd been hanging onto. The tingling across his skin became a fire. Peter pushed home and Sylar put his head back and gasped, his body spasming like whatever was surging through Peter was now possessing Sylar as well. Sylar whimpered and suddenly quivered too, in the throes of an undeniable arousal. Peter bent to him, kissing and sucking at his exposed throat, feeling all the sensations that were running through Sylar echoed in himself.

A maelstrom of desire and hunger swept Peter under and he gave himself up to it completely. Sylar wrapped his arms around him as if trying to anchor them both to one another. A moment later, Sylar added his legs, rocking and curling his body into Peter's as they began to move as one. Sylar's limbs rubbed and stroked constantly, gripping and flexing, tightening against Peter's body in a perfect rhythm, exactly what Peter needed, exactly what Sylar needed. Sylar groaned loudly and with every breath, holding Peter to him, all skin against skin, opening himself completely.

Peter fell into Sylar's emotions, losing all track of where his own feelings, sensations and thoughts ended and where Sylar's began. He was Sylar; he was Peter; they were one being, locking and locked together like two perfect puzzle pieces, his power matching up with Sylar's and clicking into place, like the integration of a hundred abilities all at once. For several glorious minutes, he was nothing but a conduit for all the pleasure and rapture that two bodies could feel. They both came, surging and throbbing inside of Sylar and between their bodies at the same time.

It shook them, leaving them clinging to one another like some great force might try to tear them apart. Fingers dug into one another's skin as their breathing sounded hollow and over-loud. Peter felt like his heart and his mind had been torn open and left raw and over-sensitive. The slightest stimulation made him tremble uncontrollably as the aftershocks crashed through him in wave after gradually diminishing wave. Sylar said nothing, equally stunned, but his fingertips shook slightly where they held Peter to him. There were no words to describe it. _Uh__ … __fuck,_ Peter's mind attempted as it came back online.

Peter finally drew back just a little, trying to separate himself mentally and emotionally from Sylar because he was truly and completely entangled. _Oh __my __God, __what __the __fuck__ just __happened __to __me? __Us? __I__ think __I__'__m __okay. __He__ looks __okay. __Oh__ holy__ … __What__ the __hell __**was **__that? __That __was __like __jumping __off __that __fucking __building._ Somewhere in there, what they were doing had gone way, way beyond sex. Peter had had really mind-blowing sex before. This … he had no idea what had just happened. There was a feeling going mad inside of him now like a thousand flocks of butterflies struggling to get out. It was the thrilling surge of falling in love, but just going on and on like a drug high.

Sylar was looking at him like he was an angel and Peter had no doubt he was feeling the same way. The man held up one hand, panting hard, his mouth slack and open. Sylar stared at his hand like he was drunk, or like he was hallucinating something that wasn't there. Peter looked as well. A moment later, Peter wondered if he, too, was seeing things as Sylar's hand lit up with blue fire.


	10. Package Deal

"Huh?" Peter said dumbly, staring at Sylar's flaming hand.

"I have your power," Sylar said, his breathing starting to slow.

Peter finally pushed himself up on both hands, hypnotized by the fire waving sensuously only a few inches from him. He could feel the heat radiating from it. His brain sluggishly reminded him of Flint Gordon, one of the inmates on level 5, who could create a hot, blue fire exactly like the one Sylar was displaying. "I thought you had to cut people's heads open for that."

Sylar shrugged. "That's how it always worked. Of course, I never tried _fucking _anyone before." He seemed as surprised as Peter, which made Peter feel a little better about his own confusion.

Reality slowly filtered back into the scene. Peter rocked back onto his haunches, pulling out of Sylar, who grunted and shivered at the sensation as his ass slid back down on the bed. The fire went out and Sylar let his hand fall to the rumpled spread. He looked up at Peter, who braced his hands on his thighs and blew out air. "Um," Peter said after a pause, "yeah, I guess, yeah. There's no reason we have to be … exclusive."

"What?" Sylar said, his voice full of fear and hurt.

Peter looked to him immediately and moved one hand from his leg to Sylar's in an attempt to comfort him. "I mean", he tried to explain, "if you need to have sex with people. For abilities, I guess?" _Sex is a whole hell of a lot better than murder. Wait, are we talking rape here? How does this thing work?_

Sylar blinked at him, the fear and hurt fading fast into an amused relief. He laughed and looked up at the ceiling. "Peter, I have _your_ ability. I can get them the same way you do!"

Now Peter blinked, processing that. "Oh." He brightened, having not been all that keen about thinking he was having an open relationship sprung on him the very first day, aside from the other troublesome questions he'd been mulling over. He rubbed Sylar's leg. "I didn't want to have to share." _Again._ Painful thoughts of Simone chased through his mind.

Sylar tilted his head. "What's wrong?"

"What?"

"What's wrong?" Sylar repeated doggedly.

"Nothing."

Sylar shifted and sat up abruptly, hesitating a moment as he dealt with the very different sensations an intimate part of his body was giving him. After a few seconds, he focused on Peter again and reached to cup his face, eyes narrowed and tilting his head again in curiosity. "You felt something … unpleasant. What was that?"

_Oh!_ Peter smiled a little, figuring this one out, at least. "It was an emotion, dork. I don't want to share you if I don't have to. I got cheated on a couple years back. That came to mind."

Sylar rubbed his thumb up and down Peter's cheek speculatively. "Incredible," he murmured. "No wonder you read me so well."

Peter sighed, pleased but tired and too out of it to consider the implications of Sylar being able to sense his emotions as easily as Peter read them in return. He was tired and blown by whatever that was they'd just done. _Mind-blowing_. "I want to either lay down and cuddle or go take a shower. Which do you vote for?"

Sylar looked down at his stomach, smeared with the results of two different orgasms and that wasn't even the main area he was worried about. "Shower."

"'Kay." _But we get to cuddle after the shower. Or maybe in it_, Peter added mentally_. _He climbed off the bed and got rid of the used condom before guiding Sylar through the house to the master bathroom. The shower there was large enough for two people.

Sylar looked the shower over like it might be a trap and said, "You just jump right into everything with a person, don't you?"

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, turning on the water and waiting for it to warm up.

"We've known each other less than a day and we're … dating and … fucking and … _showering_ together." Sylar spoke like the part about showering was the most intimate and abnormal to be doing with someone you didn't know all that well.

_That was more than just fucking, man. I don't know **what** that was, but it was **way** more than just fucking. And if sex with you is always like that … I … I … Jesus, I might never fuck anyone else! _Peter grinned easily and turned to loop his hands behind Sylar's neck. It wasn't hard to draw him down into a sweet, simple kiss. Peter smirked and said, "I have kind of a history of jumping off buildings hoping I'll learn to fly before it's too late."

Sylar raised a brow. "With anyone else, I'd say that was suicidal."

Peter shrugged, a lot of complicated emotions swirling around inside of him. "Maybe I am."

Sylar's expression changed and shifted. Peter felt something akin to love coming from him – it was, at the very least, a deepening affection. He hugged Peter tightly and didn't speak.

* * *

><p>The next day, Peter was craning his neck to see inside of the conference room, but he couldn't make out anything useful. There was at least a half dozen other people in there. He recognized the facilities manager, but then Nathan was shutting the door behind him and Peter's view was cut off. Nathan gave him a faint smile. "Peter." His gaze rested on Peter but for a second, before passing by to regard the threatening man standing close at Peter's back. Nathan didn't recognize Sylar, having no reason to as they'd never met. The only time Nathan and Sylar had even been close to one another, Nathan had been a bit distracted by Peter irradiating everything nearby.<p>

Ever since Peter and Sylar had teleported into theOdessafacility earlier that morning, Sylar had been emoting 'stone cold serial killer' and 'do you want to be my next victim?' to everyone they came across. His demeanor conveyed the seething anger that was just under the surface. Peter knew that further down, he was … well, yes, he was still seething with anger, but Sylar was also terrified, which was why he had not strayed more than an arm's length from Peter the whole time they'd been here. They'd been roaming around trying to figure out where Nathan was. They'd finally found him.

"This is Sylar," Peter said.

"Sylar?" Nathan replied, his tone indicating his recognition and surprise. Last Nathan had known, Sylar had been a rampaging killer. He looked at Peter questioningly.

"We're together," Peter said firmly.

Nathan's eyes flitted back to Sylar, who was standing behind and to the side of Peter, too close for casual positioning. His proximity had a lot more to do with fear than intimacy, but Nathan didn't know that. He looked back and forth between them, obviously processing the different possible meanings of 'together'. Very quietly, he said, "There are some things you probably shouldn't be flaunting, Peter."

Stiffly Peter answered, "Oh? You think I should keep it in the closet, like you did with your ability to fly?"

Nathan's expression closed off further and he snapped, "Certain people might not be as open-minded as you think they should be."

Peter heard Sylar shift behind him and saw Nathan's eyes warily dart back to the taller man. Sylar stepped out beside Peter, extending his hand and exuding a shy, endearing harmlessness that caught Peter's attention immediately because it was so different than his previous aura of menace. "I don't think I caught your name," Sylar said quietly, "but I know you're very important to Peter. I'm Gabriel Gray."

_Gabriel?_ Peter blinked in surprise, not sure if this meant he should relabel his companion in his mind, or if that was a Nathan-only, polite-introductions name. Now that Peter thought about it, Sylar had never asked Peter to call him 'Sylar'. Peter just **_had_**, because everyone else did. What the man wanted to be called might be something else entirely. He filed it away as something to ask when they weren't in the middle of things.

After a pause, Nathan reached out and shook Sylar's hand. "Nathan Petrelli. Yeah, I'm his big brother." He tried to stand a little taller and squared his shoulders at Sylar, who slouched even further and ducked his head. Peter could have burst out laughing at the dynamics, but he settled for a single, quiet chuckle.

"Of course," Sylar said, backing down. What impressed Peter especially was that most of Sylar's concession was real, even if the body language was exaggerated. Very softly, Sylar said, "Your brother is a wonderful person, Mr. Petrelli."

Nathan let go of Sylar's hand and stood quietly for a moment before relaxing slightly. "Yes. Yes, he is. Call me Nathan."

"Thank you," Sylar said in a voice that was a bit more normal for him, with a grudging respect. "Nathan," he added, giving a single deep nod.

Nathan returned a much shallower nod and looked to Peter, dismissing and accepting Sylar's presence in the same motion. "I was serious though. Ma's here."

_Oh shi-_


	11. Forwarding Address

_Oh no,_ Peter thought with a jolt of panic. With his shift in emotion, Sylar turned and put his hand on Peter's shoulder. Peter shrugged him off immediately. "No. Not now. Nathan's right." He could feel that his rejection of the comfort stung Sylar. The other man quietly withdrew behind him to where he'd been before. Peter hoped he wasn't screwing things up too badly with Sylar, but it was one thing to be open with his brother; quite another to contemplate such a disclosure to his _mother_. Peter had always assumed she knew, but given the reception being a nurse had gotten, he'd never brought up to either of his parents the exponentially _more_ problematic issue of his lack of exclusive heterosexuality. Nathan knew, but Nathan knew everything. And then there was the whole issue of trying to take over the Company she and his father, among others, had built. It was all a lot more than he wanted to explain to Sylar at the moment. To Nathan, Peter asked, "What's going on?"

Nathan tilted his head. "I think I'll let them explain. They're in charge, after all." With that, he turned to the conference room door and held it open for Peter. Nathan came through after and Peter felt a surge of confrontational energy behind him. He glanced back. Nathan had gone to shut the door at a natural, normal speed, acting like Sylar wasn't there. Sylar had stopped it, pushed it back, and was walking in, equally pretending that Nathan hadn't tried to shut him out.

Caught between his brother and his new lover, Peter wasn't sure how to react and by the time he'd noticed, the matter was settled. He still knew he should do something to show his support of Sylar, but he didn't want to show any unusual preference for Sylar in front of the other people in the room. So all Peter did was to give Nathan a nasty look, and he sensed the hurt that caused Sylar. Peter went on to settle into the seat at the end of the table, face impassive. (_Dammit. This is certainly getting off to the wrong start_.) Sylar, scowling, took the chair to his left, leaving Nathan to sit to Peter's right, wearing a politician's smile. They made quite the trio.

It was a big table, made from a dark, expensive wood and over twenty feet long. At the far end were clustered the others - his mother, Bob, Elle, Noah, Craig (the facilities manager), two others Peter recognized and three he did not. Bob Bishop was at the head of the table, like he was in charge. This was Peter's first meeting with him while having his ability. He'd seen Bob from time to time at his parent's parties and he'd seen him at the Company's facility months previous. There was something not right with Bob and even at this distance - too far for Peter to have any extraordinary read of his emotions - he could still tell there was something 'off' with the man.

More important than Bob was Peter's mother. It was another first - this being the first time Peter had seen her since shortly before blowing up over New York. Nathan had told Peter that she'd known; she'd set Peter up for that, it having been her plan all along. Peter felt so betrayed by her. Her expression now showed her uncertainty of Peter's reaction. She feared him and there was guilt there, too, along with what might be shame. She wasn't all that much closer than Bob, but Peter knew her much better, able to read her without the proximity his ability required.

Looking on Elle brought to mind the scorch marks that had marred Sylar's forehead and the glimpse Peter had had of Sylar convulsing on the ground due to her power before being brutally kicked and beaten. There was also Elle's casual indifference to leaving someone injured and sick confined in a room without making sure they'd be looked after. Peter's exposure to her before that had been looking on Ricky's charred, roasted corpse in Cork, killed trying to protect Peter. He had been a normal guy and although Peter knew Ricky could be dangerous, it in no way explained why Elle had _killed _him, much less the bizarre excess of cycling electricity through him until he was cooked from the inside out. And then there were Peter's own disturbing experiences with her at Pinehearst, as her prisoner, and Bob's. She relished inflicting pain - it turned Peter's stomach. He let his eyes drift on.

Noah - Peter had not gathered all the dynamics going on between Noah and the Company, except that he was aware there were quite a few. Bob's visit had not been a pleasant one for the Bennet family. Noah had died trying to keep Claire from the clutches of the Company and Noah was of the opinion he had not succeeded. With his family at stake, Noah was capable of anything.

Peter's eyes scanned over the others and then settled on the prominent object in the middle of the table, like a centerpiece: Adam's golden heart. Peter had last seen it in Nathan's office here. It was a sobering reminder of what he was here to fight. Peter glowered at it, eyes narrowing.

Bob finished the conversation he'd been having when Peter entered, saying to Angela, "I have no doubt that he's sufficiently motivated this time." He nodded to her and then raised himself from his chair, looking at Peter. A creepy half-smile grew on his face as he followed Peter's obvious sightline to his creation. Pitching his voice to carry, he said, "I thought having that here was fitting, since after all, Adam was, for so long, the _lifeblood_ of the Company. But now it seems that we have new blood. That makes _so many_ things _so much more_ possible." There was something about his emphasis that was downright threatening. At a subtle shift, Peter glanced over at Noah, who had straightened in his seat and was staring fixedly at the heart, lips tight in what was probably fear. Noah wasn't alone in that - Nathan was unsettled and Sylar … well, it was amazing no one was dead yet. Sylar was being very quiet and very still, but his emotions were raging.

Peter let his eyes slide back up to Bob's. "Tell me about this restructuring," he said slowly.

Smiling unctuously as ever, Bob said brightly as though he was communicating wonderful news, "Well, to start with, your brother there is going to take over the Linderman Group for us. The lovely Niki will help him." He hesitated a moment, waiting for Peter's inevitable look to Nathan.

Peter gave Nathan a confused glance. _Lost the presidency, gained an organized criminal syndicate? And Niki - must be that blonde the reporters saw him with in Vegas last year._ The whole thing didn't quite match up with the guilt, worry and fear Nathan was feeling. Nathan didn't seem to want what he was being given.

Nathan put his hand partly over his mouth and spoke very quietly, saying, "You're here now. We can re-negotiate. Don't let him divide and conquer." Peter pulled in a deep breath. So Nathan hadn't accepted being put in charge of a bunch of mobsters - he'd just been stalling for Peter to get here. He looked to Bob, trying to think of what he needed to do. Nathan clearly expected him to save the day here. _I'm a nurse, not a … hostile takeover person. What **should**__ I be doing? _Sylar shifted forward somewhat, having heard Nathan's whispered words as well as Peter did. He glanced at Peter as though for guidance and Peter gave him a brief, helpless look. _I … don't know what to do._

Bob continued to smile, though it had taken on a shark-like aspect. "The Linderman Group will provide us with vital money-laundering capabilities so we can expand our research, which is our new charter!" He leaned forward on the table staring just a bit too avidly at Sylar for … well, anyone's comfort. "You see, I've been in communication with Dr. Suresh and he told me …" Bob shrugged, his eyes going to Peter now, "well, he told me _everything_." Peter's gaze darted to his mother, but her expression was normal enough. He looked back at Bob, who gave him a nasty little twitch of his puckered lips. "Not to worry, Peter, I only passed on the _pertinent_ details. Turns out Mohinder likes to monologue a lot." Now Angela gave Bob a considering glance before looking back to Peter, who swallowed and suppressed the urge to squirm in his seat. Sylar shifted again, restless like a dog on a leash.

Peter didn't look at him, but he was very aware of Sylar and also very aware that the man was itching to act. _Well, he's certainly got experience with the hostile part of the takeover. But can I trust him not to push it too far? My **mother**__ is on the other end of this table. How far will he go if I ask him to carry the ball here while Nathan and I run interference?_

Bob continued, "And as it turns out, Mohinder is _very_ willing to continue working with us to perfect a serum that will permanently remove abilities without those pesky little lethal side effects you seem so worried about." Peter did his best to look unaffected, but despite being a score of feet away, Bob was making his skin crawl.

"And so," Bob went on, "you can have everything you wanted, Peter. Everyone in the prison cells could be treated and released, free to live their normal lives without any further interference from us." Bob paused again, waiting for Peter's response, but Peter was stony-faced and silent, thinking about Adam telling him they'd been saying they were working on a cure for over three decades. Who knew if it might take _another _three decades? Or more? What was the Company to do with their prisoners during that time? Would they continue to police the world of dangerous specials with abduction, assault and illegal detention?

Having failed to get a reaction, Bob pushed it by saying, "That's what you _want_, isn't it, Peter?" Peter looked at him blankly, refusing to give the man the confirmation he was seeking. Bob offered, "You can even … have _him_," making a slight nod of his head towards Sylar. Peter, though, instantly looked to his mother, whose expression was so cold that ice settled in Peter's gut.

Sylar came to his feet and Bob flinched back, eyes darting between Peter and Sylar like he assumed Peter was going to exercise some manner of control. Seeing his fear, Peter glanced over at Sylar, who looked down at Peter as if looking for permission. Uncertain of how this was going to play out, Peter gave it, extending his trust. He didn't know what Sylar was going to do any better than Bob did. A tiny nod was enough to convey it.

Sylar turned and stalked very slowly towards the other end of the table. "You can't offer what doesn't belong to you in the first place. I won't be blackmailed," Sylar sneered. He waved back towards Peter and said off-handedly, "We fucked. Get over it."

Peter choked and he was sure he had to be turning several different colors at once. Nathan gave a single, small cough. Peter couldn't bring himself to look up and see the other reactions, although the only one that mattered to him was his mother's. _Invisible. I should go invisible_. But at the moment, it was impossible to summon any emotion about Claude. Too many other feelings were running rampant.

Sylar's voice carried on after that short pause, saying, "What Peter _wants_ is to see the end of your depraved practices. Something **_I_** want as well." Peter lifted his head slightly to watch. His mother didn't look as shocked, pale or angry as he thought she would. Peter felt a little flutter of hope at that. She was looking up at Sylar, who was getting closer to her. Sylar paused to look piercingly across the table at Elle, who curled her lip at him, and Noah, who ignored him in favor of watching Bob and Angela. "Funny … it was your Company," Sylar looked back to Bob and continued, "that encouraged me to use a certain method to get what I want." He lifted his hand, a finger extended in a gesture Peter had been on the receiving end of before.

Bob jerked, Angela's eyes widened, Noah had a sudden need to reach inside his jacket. Peter said not a word and he did nothing either. He simply sat there thinking, _Please don't. Please don't kill someone right in front of me. It's not like it's better if you do it without me around, but not right in front of me, okay? Not now. I know you hate them. Not now. Be better. Make it a day at least, okay? Is a day too much? I shouldn't have brought him here. It's too much. Do I stop him? Well … he hasn't done anything yet._

Sylar gave Bob an expression that was half smile, half leer, no doubt feeding off Bob's fear, thanks to another ability gleaned from the ones Peter had collected on Level 5. He took a step forward, letting his hand drop slowly. Bob straightened, relaxing just a little, and Sylar took another step, now standing behind two of the people Peter didn't know well. A different expression passed over Sylar's face, and he breathed a deep exhalation of satisfaction. "Ahhh. Yes." His smile widened. "Go ahead and run out the door now, **_Bob_**," Sylar said with taunting emphasis on the man's name. "We don't need you anymore."

Bob looked around the table uncertainly, but no one seemed any more informed than he was. He looked back at Sylar. "I beg your pardon?"

Sylar breathed out heavily like a slow snort. "All you can do is make money and problems. We don't need either, so _get lost_."

Bob laughed nervously. "You don't understand how to run a company. You _need_ money."

Sylar made a scoffing noise. "No, I need _power_, and I happen to have more of that than even I had imagined possible." He stepped sideways between Angela and the man sitting next to her, reaching out his hand with one finger extended. He looked at Bob with a 'watch this' expression and touched the table. There was a whisper of sound and a discoloration like frost spread quickly from where Sylar was touching. Quick behind the spreading, lacy white frost came a different color – gold. The entire table, all twenty feet long and four or five feet wide, turned to solid gold within a few seconds.

People gasped. Beside Peter, Nathan murmured, "Jesus Christ!" A moment later, as Sylar was stepping back, the table groaned under its own immensely greater weight and bowed inward in the middle, bending and collapsing to the floor as everyone at the sides of the table jumped back and scattered to avoid being crushed. Tons of dense, soft golden metal warped and settled to the floor with a dull thud and a subtle vibration that told of just how thick and reinforced the floors were at the Company facility to have survived the weight without breaking. Several trickles of dust rained down anyway. Sylar smirked. There was enough gold in the room to buy a small country now.

"But …" Bob started, his mouth flapping, "you don't have my ability …"

"Au contraire," Sylar said. "I have the ability of every person in this room."

Peter stood. There wasn't much point in sitting anyway with the table a ruin. "He's right. We don't need you," he said, looking at Bob and moving around the table on the side opposite from Sylar. He knew what he needed to do now. He needed to back up Sylar. "We don't need your lies, your complete lack of morals, or your fucked up sense of humor." Peter gestured at the golden heart, which had been smashed into near-unidentifiability when the table collapsed.

Peter continued, "This ends **_now_**. We're going to _stop_ trying to get rid of powers and pretending they don't exist," Peter glanced at his mother briefly and resisted the urge to shoot Nathan a similar look. His mother cast her eyes downward and said nothing. Peter went on, "We're going to find specials and _help_ them, guide them, train them if necessary. **_That_** is the new charter."

His mother spoke for the first time, asking, "What if they are monsters? There are some who can never be trusted." Her eyes held Peter's steadily despite Sylar's looming presence over her. Sylar put his hand on the back of her chair familiarly, leaning into it a little. She didn't acknowledge it.

Peter matched Sylar's motion on his side of the table, leaning against Elle's chair. She looked up at him apprehensively. Bob took a step closer, looking between Peter and his daughter. "Sometimes it seems that way, Ma, like you can never trust someone again because of what they've done." He exhaled heavily. "But for them, we should do the same thing we do with anyone else who's having trouble working with people. If that doesn't help, then we involve law enforcement. Every country in the world has a justice system. There's no reason for us to be judge, jury and executioner. It invites corruption."

Angela raised one brow and gave a single, small nod, obviously catching that Peter was talking about _her_ and not Sylar.

"What about crimes past?" Noah asked quietly from his seat next to where Peter was standing. For a moment Peter thought he, too, was talking about Sylar before he realized Noah was talking about himself.

Nathan stood as well and walked towards Bob's end of the table on Peter's side. Maybe it was a joint recognition of his background as a district attorney that led the others to wait for his answer, or maybe it was something about his carriage. He said, "The justice system at work in this country has a long history of amnesty." He looked at Bob and gave a small, decisive shake of his head. "I don't want the Linderman Group. But you are right that it's vital, and what you said earlier is true - the Company needs someone with strong organizational and leadership skills in charge of it. Maybe even someone ruthless. That's why **you** need to be in charge of it, not me."

Nathan turned to look between Peter and Sylar. "I'll take the US government. We need to get the Company operating legally, under proper supervision by the government. The security agencies need to know what we can do. The president needs to know. And then …" He looked from Peter to Sylar again, pointedly ignoring his mother, Bob and everyone else at the table, "then we'll do what proper, democratically elected authority tells us to do. It's not perfect, but it's better than _this_."

Peter smiled a little and looked at Sylar, knowing that the three of them were making decisions that would have ripple effects far outside this room. The tall man betrayed a little bit of nerves because he realized the same thing, then nodded once.

Nathan turned to Bob now and said with steel in his voice, "Okay. We have a plan. Is this transition going to take place peaceably?"

Bob snorted. "Do I have any choice?"

Sylar spoke with a curl of his lip. "No more than you ever gave me."

Bob looked down at Angela, who gave him a small, unnerving smile, like she'd known all along this was going to happen. "Fine!" he spat out.


	12. Free On Board

Peter would have liked to have gotten rid of Bob and Elle immediately, but they couldn't. There were a lot of unpleasant things to be dealt with that day and he was ever so glad to have his brother and Sylar (of all people - it still seemed very strange) there to help him … or perhaps for him to help them. None of the three was 'in charge' over the others. Each had strengths they brought to the table that the rest needed. They worked through the afternoon and evening, drawing up plans, talking them out, calling people, and grilling Bob, Angela and the others about how the Company worked. By the end of the day, Peter was wrung out. Nathan seemed to be okay emotionally and mentally, but physically he was losing ground. Sylar had born up under the stress better than either of the brothers Petrelli, but an irritated edge was creeping into even his voice. After a brief working dinner, they called it a day.

Peter took his mother home - a convenience of having a son with teleportation, that she could attend an all-day business meeting in Odessa, Texas, yet sleep in her own bed in New York without any of the hassle of airport security. He started to leave immediately from the Petrelli mansion, but she noticed his distant expression as he thought about his destination. She reached for him quickly, saying, "Peter, wait!"

He paused, looking down at her grip at his elbow. He thought about Sylar catching his hand when Peter had reached for him, the day before. Like Sylar, her thumb stroked up and down against him for a moment. Then she pulled back. "Will you stay for tea?"

"It's nine o'clock at night, Ma." But he didn't leave.

"A glass of wine then? Or _anything?_" she pleaded. "Peter, I just want to talk."

He swallowed, glancing around the home he'd grown up in. All day they'd been perfectly civil and professional with each other, a distance between them that had chafed like a rough shirt against sunburned skin. He nodded. "Okay. I'll … just have some juice."

They walked in the kitchen where Angela poured two glasses of cranberry-apple juice. It was strong, tart and a little sour, but sweet underneath, which Peter thought (hoped) said something about his mother. "So you just met him yesterday?" she said, jumping right into a subject Peter had been dreading for hours now.

"Uh … yeah." He didn't know what else to say, so he sipped his juice and waited apprehensively. Technically he'd met Sylar three times before, but those encounters had been brief and violent. He knew that wasn't what his mother was talking about. This was the first time he'd disclosed a same-sex relationship to her.

"I've known for quite a while," she confided.

"It's okay?" he asked, certain that she was referring to his orientation in general and not Sylar specifically. Behind his simple question was most of a decade of uncertainty and fear. He'd lied by omission and hidden a very important part of himself. Many of his partners were women, but some were not. He'd only ever mentioned the former. In the end, it had done him no more good than Nathan trying to deny that he could fly. Peter found himself grateful for Sylar's bald proclamation of carnal knowledge. He didn't appreciate being outed, but it was long overdue and Sylar had just been disarming Bob's threats in the most expedient manner available. Peter thought there had been a little bit of boasting in there, too, for Sylar, which pleased him.

"Well, if it isn't," his mother replied, "what is there to be done about it? You're still my son. Although your taste … Gabriel … does he return your feelings?"

There was a lot to react to in those lines. She disapproved, but she accepted, and then the matter of Sylar, of all the men out there he could turn up with. He'd introduced himself as Gabriel Gray to Angela as well, but as Sylar to others. "I …" _I don't know. Sort of? Maybe? _"I just started dating him yesterday. We're still getting to know each other." _I'm not even positive what to call him!_

She reached out a cool hand to cup his cheek. "I trust you to make the right decision, Peter."

He wondered what she meant by that and if she was trying to steer him one way or another. It angered him that their relationship had fallen apart so much that even such a supportive comment from her provoked him to second guessing. _If she can bring things up that are uncomfortable, then so can I._ "You didn't trust me at Kirby Plaza."

She let her hand fall. "Yes, and I see where that got me. The future is not always clear and even when it is, it can be changed if one interferes with it too much. Perhaps when it looked like my role in creating a better world was to cause such destruction, I was wrong, and my role was actually to awaken you to the dangers and responsibilities that come with abilities, so that you would do what you're doing now."

"That sounds like an excuse." _Some sort of after-the-fact rationalization._

She smiled faintly. "Perhaps it is. I don't want to be the one who was a villain any more than anyone else."

He wanted to tell her, _You're not a villain, Ma_, but he didn't say it. He could tell she was trying to mend fences. While he might not be ready for that, he appreciated the gesture. It was a step in the right direction - a direction he wanted to go. "No one wants to be a villain. Not even the villains. I'm hoping we can use the Company to make it easier for people to be heroes instead."

Her smile softened. "You're such a dreamer, Peter. But if you can see redeeming features in _him_, then I hope you will find some in myself."

Peter put his empty glass aside, thinking about how she was admitting, indirectly perhaps, that Sylar **had** redeeming features. He came close to kiss her on the forehead. "Love you, Ma. I gotta go."

"Good night, Peter."

* * *

><p>Peter teleported back to the smaller staff conference room in Odessa. He saw that Sylar had returned from taking Bob and Elle to Las Vegas. The two of them would get started on the Linderman Group in the morning. Neither of the Bishops was all that happy about the arrangement, but it was better than being outside the Company altogether. Nathan was adding some lines to his notebook. Sylar was methodically erasing the whiteboard that they had covered so many times that day with ideas, lists and diagrams.<p>

Peter stretched, noting Sylar watching him appreciatively out of the corner of his eye. That was nice to see. Sylar had had his game face on for most of the day, completely focused on business. Being able to read his emotions was no help - all it told Peter was that yes, Sylar really was focused on business. "So," Peter started, "are we going to turn in for the night?"

"Sure," Nathan answered. "You're coming back to the hotel, right?" There was a slight edge to Nathan's voice that Peter didn't care for. It was proprietary, maybe even possessive.

Peter glanced over at Sylar, who quit surreptitiously spying on him and devoted all his attention to arranging the markers and the two erasers in the tray under the whiteboard. It was of great importance that they be properly spaced out, after all. Peter smiled as he warmed inside. Sylar had stayed _for him_. He had Peter's abilities and his role in working with the Company was unchallenged (at least by Nathan and Peter). Yet he'd stayed here waiting _for Peter_. "No," Peter answered his brother. "I've got somewhere else I'm going to be."

Nathan huffed. Peter looked over at him and crossed his arms across his chest. Testily he said, "If you have a problem, Nathan, just spit it out." Nathan hadn't been all that happy about seeing Simone in Peter's apartment either. Sometimes Peter really wondered what went on in his brother's head, because it was almost like he was _jealous_.

Nathan looked up at him, then across the room to Sylar (who had stepped back to survey the marker spacing with a critical eye), then back to Peter. Nathan pondered his words, clearly trying to work out what to say. Finally he shook his head. "No. No problem."

"Comment then?" Peter pressed. "Because I don't want this to be an issue. I saw how you were earlier with the door. I'm not going to stand for that." Sylar blurting things out earlier, and his mother's surprisingly easy acceptance of it, had freed Peter from the burden of being secretive.

Nathan walked over closer to Sylar, who turned to face him, glancing past uncertainly to Peter. Nathan said, "What I've heard about you hasn't been good. Peter's not as much of a realist as you or I. I get that. I hope _you _get that."

Sylar pulled himself up to his full, intimidating height. "I get that." His voice was even and uninflected.

Nathan frowned up at him, showing no fear even though Peter could feel it in his brother's emotions. He knew Sylar could feel it, too. Nathan said, "I had to stand over his dead body thinking I'd lost him forever because of you."

"Nathan-" Peter said, but Nathan's hand and sharp glance over his shoulder cut Peter off.

"You said you wanted things out in the open. Well, this is out in the open." Nathan turned back to Sylar. "Peter's giving you a second chance. So I'm giving you one, too." Nathan looked down for a moment, then back up, meeting Sylar's eyes again. "But don't think that's as easy for me as it is for Peter. Treat him right."

Sylar made a slow dip of his head that might have been a nod. Nathan took it as that and backed off. He gathered up his notebook and looked to Peter. "I'll see you in the morning then." He glanced over at Sylar and gave him a short smile. "Both of you."

* * *

><p>Peter and Sylar returned to the beach house, showered separately and got ready for bed. Peter came to the door of the room Sylar had slept in the night before, where Sylar was getting into bed now. Peter had slept across the hall, not sure what their arrangements should be. He still wasn't sure, but he knew he didn't like sleeping alone when there was another option.<p>

He'd had such rotten luck with relationships over the years, almost never getting what he wanted, which wasn't _just_ the sex. He threw himself at people, his clingy, needy dependence driving them off while at the same time driving him to do it again and again. It was always casual for them - it never was for Peter. Getting his heart trampled on was a price he was willing to pay to get close to someone … even if only for a while. His mother's question burned in his mind. Peter leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, dressed in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, and asked the other man, "Rough day, huh?"

"I've had worse." The bedroom Sylar had chosen was the one they'd had sex in the day before. Peter was certain that showed an acceptance of what they'd done, even if Sylar had been a little stand-offish after.

Peter nodded. "It should get better now that we have a handle on what's going on, and there's three of us to do it." He edged inside the doorway, so the frame was at his back now. It was a few inches closer.

"Yeah," Sylar agreed, studying Peter. Peter chewed his lip and looked at the floor, not brave enough to just _ask_ if they could sleep together. Besides, he didn't know how to phrase it without making it sound like he was angling to get laid again. Not like Peter would mind that, but he was worn out at the moment, run down by the day, which was why he wasn't in the mood for sex and yet very much wanted to be close enough to someone to be comforted by them. Awkward seconds ticked by. Sylar finally said, "Come here. I want to see how your ability works."

That didn't sound interesting to Peter, but it was an excuse to get closer and he took it. He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it. "What do you want me to do?"

"Come over here and put your hand out." Sylar raised his, palm towards Peter. Peter crawled on the bed next to him, matching his hand, touching their fingertips together. Sylar curled his longer fingers so they met. His expression became serious and Peter felt something stir inside of himself.

"What are you doing?"

"Making it intentional," Sylar said, "instead of reflexive."

"Making what intentional?"

"Fitting our powers together." Sylar sighed, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. "All day it's been … annoying me. Getting the others' powers was nice, but this … this is better. This is the whole feast, instead of having it parceled out to me in bites and morsels." Peter could sense the satisfaction flowing through Sylar. The other man opened his eyes slowly and said, "Now you."

"Now me what?"

"Think about how you feel about me, maybe how you felt yesterday. It's emotional for you, right?" Peter nodded. "Then feel your way through it and push those feelings."

Peter swallowed and looked at their hands. He furrowed his brow and thought about letting power flow through his hand. Arcs of electricity jumped between his fingertips and Sylar's. Peter jerked his hand back.

Sylar grimaced, but he barely flinched. He kept his hand where it had been. "Wrong ability," Sylar said. Patiently he told Peter, "Try again. Emotions, not energy."

_How do I feel about you? Unsure. Delighted. Happy. Hopeful. Maybe? I love you. Insecure. Worried. A little afraid._ Peter reached out again and pushed those feelings, sensing warmth against his palm and then something easing in his chest. The boundaries between them blurred and faded, similar to what had happened the day before, but without the sexual energy confusing it and overwhelming him.

All of his insecurity and self-doubt faded away. He was deeply content, everything and nothing at the same time. It was a strangely transcendent, spiritual, Zen moment of peace. Peter fell into it gratefully, like falling into slumber after days of wakefulness. He felt Sylar's fingers slide between his own and softly grip, then pull him closer. Peter came, snuggling up next to the other man, on top of the covers while Sylar was beneath them.

"You quell the hunger in me," Sylar murmured. "I'm doing something for you, too, I see."

Peter slowly broke it off, trying to focus on the words. He felt a little drunk from the contact. "Thank you," he whispered, not sure what else to say. Finding a little more strength in his voice, he asked, "Did you know it would do that? Us?"

"No. Not until you showed me."

Peter's hand stroked the blanket over Sylar's stomach while Sylar's brushed Peter's back tentatively. _We're both so unsure,_ Peter thought. "Can I sleep in here with you?" he blurted out.

Sylar didn't answer with words, but instead started turning down the blankets for Peter to climb under them. Peter snuggled up under Sylar's arm and rested his head on his shoulder. It wasn't a position he'd hold for the night, but it was comforting and what he wanted at the moment. Sylar's arm curled behind Peter's back, tucking him close. Peter's hand went to Sylar's chest where, after a few restful moments, he began to smooth his fingertips across the cloth of the shirt. Peter made a soft, contented sound.

"Do you want me to call you Sylar, or Gabriel?"

The man in question ran his fingers along the hem of Peter's t-shirt where it lay above the small of his back, feeling the cloth, then an inch lower to feel Peter's skin, then the cloth again. "You mean my introduction to your brother this morning?"

"Yes."

Sylar sighed. "My mother, Chandra, the people who would come into the watch shop - none of them accepted that I was different, or special. My mother told me I _could_ be special, not that I _was_. I had to **_prove_** it. Gabriel Gray is that quiet guy who's not going to hurt anyone because he _can't_. Your brother can trust him. He's powerless." Sylar paused for a while and then said, "I'm not that person anymore, even if I don't have abilities."

"I trust you."

Sylar chuckled and snugged him tight against him. "You're here with me. That's a lot of trust, Peter."

Peter wriggled closer, feeling so perfect inside and feeding off the warmth he was sensing from inside of Sylar.

Sylar said, "I notice you don't say anything about your expectations that I won't hurt anyone."

"I'm not the idiot dreamer my mother and brother think I am. Like I said yesterday, you have a right to defend yourself. You made me a promise. I'll make you one back." Peter twisted and rose on his elbow so he could look Sylar in the face. "You don't have to _prove_ anything to me. I know you're special - abilities or not."

Sylar leaned in to kiss him and Peter met him - long, slow and sweet, their affections flowing together, tenderly merging and overlapping until Peter had no question that Sylar returned his feelings.

"You didn't answer my question, though," Peter said as they parted.

"You gave me back my abilities even knowing what that might mean. You had faith in me. Your family can know me as Gabriel - powerless and harmless. To you, though," the man leaned in, letting his lips caress Peter's, "I'm Sylar." Sylar drew Peter to him, pressing home a deep, consuming kiss.

_Fin._


End file.
